A Widow Nesting
by nikonic
Summary: Life throws the Avengers' resident assassins for a little loop; a story in which we see how the newly minted Avengers Tower handles a pint-sized assassin baby. Hawkeye/Black Widow established relationship, all Avengers included at one point. Rated for language
1. Chapter 1

Author's Note: So I've been MIA from the world of fanfiction for a while, and Marvel's Avengers struck my fancy. Bear with me as I try and write my way through my slight obsession with these characters.

Disclaimer: I own nothing. Sadly, still a poor college student not to excited about graduating. Reviews make me happy.

"Tasha," he yelled as he watched his partner duck into a stairwell and out of sight. "What are you doing?" Hawkeye continuously fired arrow after arrow into the sea of enemies swarming the building. They were seriously outgunned and outmanned. "Nat," he called again. He couldn't hear her heaving breathing through her comm link. "Woman, if you lost your damn comm because one of these bastards knocked you in the head, I'm going to superglue that fucker in your damn ear. Natasha, do you copy?"

Six minutes passed and he heard nothing. He swore in every language he knew until he caught a flash of her red curls on the roof below. Armed enemies were making their way up to the landing where she was. One fired and he saw her wince. "Fuck," he grumbled. He was always better at cussing in English. When he saw her signal, he coded a zip line hook onto his arrow before aiming at the low roof of an adjacent building. She took a sprawling jump off her roof and he swung from his a moment later.

His body collided with hers and he wrapped his arm around her tightly, holding her close. As he landed on the roof, he pressed his comm to call for immediate extraction from the rendezvous point. "Target force not wiped out. Armed enemies still at location. Back up requested immediately." He looked at Natasha, who looked deathly pale but held up a flash drive. "Mission accomplished. USB retrieved. Mark terminated. We need immediate medical team. Romanov has been hit." SHIELD agents barked in his ear affirmative remarks and commands to the teams on the ground. He faintly heard the fire fight across the street.

He was entirely focused on the fiery redhead in front of him. "Tasha, stay with me." The archer continued to talk to her, forcing her to answer questions as he searched for the entry wounds causing the most blood loss. "What's your favorite city?"  
"Budapest," she whispered, her voice quiet against the street noise.  
"What's your least favorite city?"  
"Budapest."  
"How many tattoos do you have?"  
"Three."  
"What's my favorite color?"  
"Purple."  
"What shirt of mine did you steal?"  
"Mine," she slurred.  
"Yeah, it's yours now only because I can never figure out where you hide it. What's on that shirt, Tasha?" Her eyelids fluttered dangerously. "Tasha, you've got to stay awake. Medic is almost here."  
"Love you." Her words jumbled and his heart clenched in his chest. Her eyelids drooped.  
"If you can hear me, squeeze my hand, Tasha. Okay?" He waited, pressing his free hand to his comm links "Damnit where the hell are you?" He leaned down and pressed a kiss to her forehead. "I love you too, Tasha," he whispered in her ear after briefly muting the comm link.

•••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

"You two are out of your fucking minds," Fury scolded. Hawkeye sat uncomfortably at the debriefing table, wanting to be in his partner's infirmary room instead. "Absolutely fucking crazy. Would it kill you to do one mission by the book? Get in. Get the USB. Don't alert every freaking armed guard in a forty-mile radius of your presence as operatives, and then get the fuck out. It doesn't sound that hard, Agent Barton! So what went wrong?"

"There was a silent alarm set up by the mark that we weren't aware of. Whether he triggered it or it was the pitch of a gunshot or it was a perimeter breach, we were outmanned and outgunned within minutes of being on the property. There was no way to get in and get out before his goon squad showed up."

"So you covered from a perch and Romanov ran unprotected into enemy fire, stole the USB drive, wiped the hard drives, and killed the mark before getting shot six times and taking a suicide jump off a roof."

"It wasn't a suicide jump, Director. She knew I would catch her. It was her only evacuation plan. We accomplished the mission. I don't see what the problem is." Barton, ever calm and collected, was starting to get angry. He had already reached frustration and was quickly escalating to pissed.

"The problem is I don't like clean up, and I'm constantly cleaning up after whatever shit you and your partner pull without regard to the mission parameters. Until further notice, you're both on solo assignments. Consider your partnership on hold. Dismissed, Agent Barton." The archer stood up and stalked out of the room using every bit of self control possessed not to shoot Fury in his only good eye.

As he left he passed Hill in the hall, the younger woman gave him an apologetic smile and clasped him on the shoulder. "I'll see what I can do to fix this. Go see Natasha." Clint nodded, once again grateful for their handler, who silently passed over the wedding rings she held for safekeeping. He hoped Hill could talk some sense into Fury. Breaking up their partnership would be detrimental. He would leave SHIELD before resuming indefinite solo missions on the other side of the world. Where she went, he went. There was a permanent spot by her side that was rightfully his, and he wouldn't give that up for anything.

He entered her room and perched dutifully at her bedside. Natasha looked deathly pale still, but the steady beeping of the heart monitor helped assure him she was alive. A doctor came in and explained that she should wake up in the next 24 hours, as her body needed time to recuperate. The man also detailed a list of her injuries, though Barton wasn't really listening. He would read the file when the doctor left. He would also bet money his partner didn't need 24 hours. At most, six he bet himself.

The partners were well versed in the art of first aid. Neither willingly went to doctors or infirmaries. Both preferred to let the other cleanse the wounds received if possible. Numerous missions ended with Barton gently cleaning bullet grazes and deftly sewing gashes from knives and daggers or Natasha skillfully removing pieces of glass from his skin or tenderly bandaging his forearm and fingers from where the bowstring had worn down skin. It was a soothing ritual and clearly portrayed the best parts of their marriage.

They were each other's support in every way possible. He trusted her to be his ears when he took out his hearing aids. She trusted him not to use her emotions against her. He always had her back, and she always had his. They completed each other. He told her that once and she nearly punched him. After he explained though, she had understood his point. She fought hand-to-hand, close combat. It was her forte. He fought best from a distance, using his spectacular sight and aim to his advantage. They covered each other's cracks and weaknesses. They presented themselves, not as two separate people, not as two partners, but as one unified front.

He just wanted to see her bright green eyes and hear her laugh at his stupid joke. He wanted to feel unified again. Watching her lying in a hospital bed with wires and monitors making her look small, he felt broken. He picked up her hand between his, noting how small her hand looked next to his. He kissed her bruised and slightly bloodied knuckles before dropping his forehead to the bed, never letting go of her hand. It wasn't the most comfortable position, but he had slept in worse. The steady beeping of the monitor and the feel of her hand in his comforted him. So Hawkeye finally allowed his assassin side to slip ever so slightly to take a nap perched on his wife's hospital bed.

He woke to the feeling of fingers threading through his hair. But he knew those fingers and Clint couldn't help but let out a grateful sigh as he turned his head slightly to look at Natasha. "Hi," she greeted quietly.

"Hey." He shuffled around to not jostle her and she glared at him for tiptoeing around her. "Hi," he repeated with a gentle smile. He kissed her and rested his forehead against hers, cradling her face in his palms. Her eyes fluttered closed at the touch as she leaned into him. No longer Widow or even Romanov, at this moment she was Natasha as he was Clint, and they were both glad to be alive. "You scared the living shit out of me. Absolutely terrified me, Tasha."

"Hmm," she mumbled noncommittally. "Nice catch though."

"I've had practice. You tend to jump off buildings frequently."

"Hmm," she mumbled again. "What's the damage?"

"Six gun shot wounds ranging from more-than-a-graze-less-than-a-whole to should-have-been-fatal. Not to mention the other general battle wounds-bruises, gashes, and scrapes."

"Not too bad then."

"Not too bad then," he repeated, his voice heightening in pitch. "Not too bad? Natasha, you almost bled out in my arms. You told me you loved me and then passed out from blood loss. Should-have-been-fatal gunshot wound most certainly doesn't fall into the category of 'not too bad then.' You spraining your ankle because you acrobat-ed around some guy's neck with your thighs and landed on debris qualifies as 'not too bad.' You almost dying in my arms... Tasha, that is very, very bad. Damnit," he swore as he moved away, pacing the short length of the infirmary room.

"Clint," she called quietly. He stopped pacing but turned from her. She could see the tension etched in his shoulders, his posture. "Come back." He scrubbed a hand over his face before turning back to her and sitting in the chair designated as his by the bed. "I've been hurt worse before. We both have. What's going on?"

"I... Natasha..." He stumbled over his words. "Coulson is trying to fix it."

"Fix what?" She laced her fingers with his; they both needed the comfort of the contact.

"Natasha," he whispered again, an excuse forming on his lips.

"Clint." His name was a soft demand, but a demand nevertheless.

"Fury terminated our partnership. Or put it on hold or something. He said we're going to be put on solo missions." He felt her tense in front of him. God, he hated Fury at that moment. How he wished to shoot him.

Her Russian kicked in as she started to rant at a speed he couldn't follow. Her natural accent slipped in, and it almost made him smile. Her accent only bled into her speech when she was angry, feeling personally targeted. In a professional sense, she kept in perfect control- her language, her words, her movements, her emotions; everything was calculated. But when it was the two of them, when it was Natasha and Clint as opposed to Black Widow and Hawkeye, she dropped the walls designed to protect her and she let him in. He cherished those moments, knowing how much it cost her to be vulnerable.

"I know," he assured her despite the fact he missed a good amount of rant. "Trust me. I know. Where you go, I go. You're stuck with me. It's legally binding," he smirked, lifting the chain around his neck as acknowledgement. When they weren't on a mission, he wore his wedding band around the necklace that hid beneath his t-shirt. It threw off his aim, he claimed. She always smirked when he used that as his excuse. It had the same effect this time as her green eyes dramatically rolled.

"Lucky me," she teased with a yawn.

"Get some sleep." He didn't need to tell her he would be there when she woke up. She knew. Like she knew he would catch her when she jumped, she knew he would be sitting there holding her hand and waiting patiently (always the sniper) to take her home.

"I'm not tired," she rebutted, barely able to suppress the yawn.

"Bull. You sleep, and I'll concoct ways to blackmail and or maim Fury."

"I knew I loved you for some reason," she teased as she closed her eyes to sleep.

"Move," she demanded of the junior agent standing in front of the doorway. He paled but stood stock-still. Her face, her demeanor, screamed Black Widow. Clint leaned against the wall somewhat content to watch the show.

"Darling," he drawled just to piss her off. "Your Russian is showing."

Ignoring her partner, she leveled the junior agent with a glare that could kill. "Move. Now."

"Fury ordered your continued recovery be on base."

"You can tell Fury to stick his damn order up his..."

"Tasha," Clint chided, causing her sentence to switch into Russian expletives and threats. "You can't kill him. You'll pull your stitches... Again. Then, Fury will never let you leave base."

"I don't need my legs to kill him. That's just the way I prefer; you know how much I like the thigh choke. I could kill him 34 different ways with my damn middle finger, and that's not injured. See," she offered, giving him the finger with a smirk. The poor agent guarding the door looked like he just might wet himself.

"Go get Fury, and we promise to stay in the room," Barton told the young man, ignoring the protesting glare from his partner. "She actually will kill you if you keep standing there. Confinement isn't really her thing. I'd give you a reference to confirm that, but people who try are dead. I can only hold her off for so long." The agent fled quickly to look for the director.

"One of these days, you'll agree and let me kill one of those little bastards," she huffed as she sat on the edge of the bed, clenching her jaw at the sudden discomfort of putting pressure on stitches. "Damn," she muttered unhappily. "I just want to go home."

"Agent Barton, Agent Romanov," Fury greeted in an unwelcoming monotone as he walked through the door. "Barton, here. Plane leaves in two hours. Romanov, you're on recovery for a fortnight. You're to remain on this base. Do I make myself clear? And stop terrorizing the junior agents. I refuse to make diapers part of their daily uniforms."

"This mission is indefinite," Barton spoke, glaring at the Director after flipping through the offered file.

"For now, it is. I need your eyes on a possible Hydra front."

"Indefinitely."

"Yes. Get packed."

"No."

"No?" Fury questioned as Natasha fixed him with a pointed questioning glare.

"No."

"Last time I checked, I was still your boss, Agent Barton. But let's pretend for a second that you have a say in the mission you're given. Why the hell are you saying no?"

Barton looked at Natasha, who shrugged and nodded slightly. "I refuse to go on an indefinite mission to," he paused, flipping though the file again. "Kuwait," he finished with a low growl.

"And why is that?"

"Barton, can I speak to you? Outside. Now." Hill demanded as she stuck her head in the door. "Before you say something stupid... Or stupider." Natasha let out a breath and Barton slipped past Fury to the hallway.

"There's a debriefing packet waiting for you in your room."

"Sir, you said I was on recovery."

"You're going undercover: long-term, deep undercover. A smuggling ring is taking children and turning them into assassins. You're going to infiltrate. The packet explains it all. You'll leave in four days."

"For how long?"

"What is it with you and Agent Barton asking about time frames? You go where you go for as long as it takes to complete the mission. Do your damn job." The tension in the room could be cut with a knife. Outside, there was a clear thud of someone punching a wall before Barton stalked back in the room. "Where are you going, Agent Barton?" Fury demanded as the younger man grabbed their bags from the corner and took Natasha's hand.  
"I'm taking my wife home. We're taking two weeks vacation. I'm sure you can find other agents qualified for babysitting Hydra and perfecting intel." He led her past Fury, who was still balking at his agent, and straight toward the elevator. Neither said a word as they loaded into their car and left the base, though he never let go of her hand.

Twenty minutes out, his phone rang and he glared at the screen. "What?" Natasha couldn't hear the conversation, and she didn't really care. Something had set him off, and she wanted to know what it was. She wanted to know if she still had a job, if he still had a job, though first she needed to figure out if she wanted to keep said job in the first place. She couldn't sort out her feelings until she knew all the facts, like what made her usually calm collected husband snap and storm off base after telling Fury they were married in passing. He hung up without another word, rhythmically clenching and unclenching his jaw. It was a tell tale sign that breaching conversation now wouldn't get her anywhere. Instead she moved the arm rests up and laid her head on his lap, curling into a slight ball, to go to sleep. It was her sign to him that she was willing to go wherever he needed, that she would be there when he needed her. She fell asleep quickly, comforted by his presence and the rumble of the car along the back roads to wherever they were headed.

He looked down at her and tucked a stray red curl behind her ear. He liked to drive. He found it soothing to drive through endless miles of country roads, focusing on the turmoil of his emotions and letting his senses and training autopilot the steering. So he drove and drove, letting his mind sort out its jumbled state.

Almost a full tank of gas was gone before he pulled into a lonely gas station diner combination. "Tasha," he whispered, rubbing her shoulder soothingly. "I found food."

"Congratulations. Do you want a damn gold sticker," she mumbled, her words somewhat muted by his t-shirt in which her face was slightly buried.

"Yes, you delightful ball of sunshine, I would love a gold sticker, but seeing as you don't carry stickers with you, I'll settle for a hot cup of coffee and pie." She sat up slowly and glared at him. She was not a morning person, or really not a person to be woken up against her will. "I bet they make a mean milkshake." He tried bribery and her stomach grumbled its consent. "I win," he noted smugly as he got out of the car and skipped around to open her door.

The diner had very few patrons and an elderly waitress named Flo, who doted on the young couple happily.  
"How are your stitches?" Clint asked through a bite of his cheeseburger.

"Still holding my skin together," she answered smoothly.

"Good, then they're doing their job. I should probably change the bandage covering them before we hit the road again," he noted absently with a gulp of his coffee. "Damn that's good stuff, much better than base swill. Ma'am, could I have some more coffee please?" The waitress shuffled over and poured him a fresh cup, which he graciously accepted.

"Everything is better than base swill. I would prefer to eat raw coffee beans than whatever sludge is in the pot in the rec room. Wherever we're going has good coffee, yes?"

"I value my life. I wouldn't take you anywhere there wasn't a hefty supply of good coffee."

"Smart man," she hummed, taking a spoonful of her milkshake. They continued to eat in companionable silence. "Should I change into something more comfortable?" It was her way of asking how much longer they would be driving. She didn't care where they were going or how long it took to get there, but she didn't want to ride much longer in jeans that were starting to be too uncomfortable given the numerous wounds on her legs and back.

"If you change into sweats and a looser shirt, I'll be able to change the bandages easier. Your tight jeans make getting to your thighs complicated, unless you just want to strip for me in the parking lot."

"Yeah, I'll just change, but enjoy that image, Barton. Oh, and try to keep it in your pants," she teased as she grabbed the keys and went to grab a bag out of the trunk.

"I'll try, darling, but I make no promises." She tossed a glare over her shoulder, though there was a smirk on her face, as the door jingled her exit.

"Y'all make a cute couple, honey. How long have ya been together?"

"Thank you, ma'am. Just over ten years now."

"Y'all must have just been babies ten years ago," she mused. "Well, that girl loves you that's for damn sure. You do right by her, ya hear? We need more gentleman in this world."

"Yes ma'am," he agreed. "Thank you." He lifted the check in acknowledgement while Natasha slipped into the bathroom holding a change of clothes and a first aid kit. After dropping cash onto the table, he popped his head in the bathroom to see Natasha clad in a sports bra and underwear, twisted and looking at her bandages in the mirror. Flipping through the kit, he noticed they were out of hydrogen peroxide. Borrowing a bottle from Flo, he returned to remove her bandages, clean the wounds, and re-bandage. He met her eyes in the mirror as he traced a raised starburst scar near the small of her back. "I love you, you know," he whispered as he kissed one of her shoulder blades. She smiled and nodded responding in Russian. "Ready to hit the road?"

"I'm going back to sleep on your lap." He smirked and shook his head with a laugh. She pulled on his sweatpants and carefully dragged on a top over the recently bandaged wounds.

In the car, she settled in the passenger seat with her head in Clint's lap, her face slightly covered by the extra fabric of his t-shirt as she turned her body towards the back of the car. He smiled at her fondly, pressing a kiss to her knuckles before the engine rumbled to life, and they were off in the dark.

"We're here," he nudged softly, slipping a hand under the loose waistband of the sweatpants to caress her left hip. His thumb swiped gently at an old scar she received from shrapnel caused by one of his exploding arrowheads.

"There's coffee here?"

"Of course, Tasha. It's a vacation not hell."

She sat up slowly, noting the yellow hue tinting the horizon. Sunrise was just around the corner. She looked at Clint first. He looked tired, but more relaxed than before. Then she looked at their surroundings. "We're home," she murmured happily as she recognized the little cottage on a cliff.

"We are. You said you wanted home. We're home."

"Thank you," she said sincerely, her voice low and raspy.

"Let's get unpacked."

"We don't have clothes or supplies unless you have magical powers I don't know about."

"I called in a favor." She raised her eyebrows at his statement. "The guys were worried. You know JARVIS records our comm links on missions we aren't with the Avengers." She nodded and started calculating how long it had been since they were both at home. "It's been much too long," he mused as if reading her thoughts.

When they were both settled on the deck, she finally brought up the topic. She couldn't see his face as her back was to his chest, her head resting on his shoulder. "What happened in the hall with Hill?" He tensed behind her before setting his steaming cup of coffee on the ledge and wrapping his arms around her. The archer stayed silent for some time. "Clint," she prodded. "What's going on?"

"The mission, your mission, it's a suicide mission." She nodded. She figured as much. When the adjectives 'long term' and 'in depth undercover' were used, she knew the danger factor increased. She also knew when the missions were hush-hush, going so far as lying about medical leave to a partner, that there was a good chance she wouldn't return if she accepted the mission. In Clint's arms on the patio of their home, she wanted nothing more than to reject the mission. She wanted whatever this was, the odd normalcy of the moment, and she definitely didn't want to die.

"Hill didn't want you to go. Fury doesn't want you to go apparently. I sure as hell don't want you to go. The Council decided you would be fit for the job after the number of agents who have been KIA due to the mission." He paused, and the silence resumed. She thought he was done talking until he nuzzled her neck and spread his hands over her belly. "Hill also mentioned something that worried the medical team." That sure as hell got her attention. She wracked her brain trying to think of an injury he sustained or something that would cause the medical team to worry about him. "The doctor told Hill because she's your handler. She told me accidentally. I really don't think she meant to, but she let it slip while she was berating me for something or other." He paused again, clearly fumbling for words.

"Spit it out, Clint," she encouraged, though he could hear a trace of nerves in her voice.

"You're pregnant." He couldn't keep the smile off of his face, but naturally he was worried about what the assassin in his arms would think about the situation.

It was her turn to tense up. Her brain whirled a mile a minute and she looked down to her stomach where Clint's large hands rested comfortably. She couldn't find words. She couldn't assess her feelings. It was too much. She started to panic because she felt her control spiraling away.

Memories flashed before her eyes. Her parents, her real parents, were caught in a fiery blaze. A woman, her new mother, pulled her from the wreckage to a new home known as the Red Room. A young girl she was ordered to kill when she was 12 and the girl, her friend, 10. A baby sentenced to death by a Widow's bullet as a message to a president and his wife. Sao Paolo, when a young boy ran into the line of fire a moment too late and his mother sobbing over his lifeless body. The hospital fire, when a floor of children was engulfed in flames because her mark decided to choose his own fate and die in a bomb explosion as opposed to a bullet to the head.

If memories taught her anything, it was that she was awful with children. Her hands weren't meant to cradle or comfort. Her body wasn't meant to give life. She had been broken down and remade, her brain and body turned into weapons. Her body was meant to kill. She was the Black Widow. She wasn't maternal. She couldn't be maternal. Red Room had taken the humanity in her soul and beat it out of her until she fought back in perfect form, efficient and deadly. She couldn't be responsible for another that depended entirely on her. She couldn't bring a baby into the world knowing the dangers it would face simply because it was the Black Widow's child. She couldn't do it. Her other options weren't any better.

She didn't realize she was crying nor did she realize Clint had rearranged their seating. Her breathing was ragged, and her chest burned. It felt like someone had gripped her heart and twisted painfully. She couldn't do this. She couldn't be a mother, and she couldn't break Clint's heart when he was obviously excited about the child, their child.

"Tasha," he whispered softly, trying to pull her out of her trance without startling her. Her knees framed his hips as he had shifted their position. He needed to see her face and he needed to comfort her. In her trance, he had moved her gently (ever careful of her stitches), so that she was in his lap but straddling him this time, her chest flush against his. Her head tilted and rested against his shoulder, so she could hear his heartbeat. He ran his hands soothingly along her spine. "Tasha," he murmured again.

He would be a great father, she thought to herself. God, he would be fantastic- just the right amount of discipline with so much laughter and fun. She could see him smiling happily at a little baby and chasing a toddler around a living room. She could see him teaching a child how to shoot bows and arrows at tree stumps and comforting a teenager with a broken heart. God, she wanted to give that to him. He deserved to be happy. He deserved a family. She just couldn't give that to him. A baby wasn't in her cards. It wasn't something she could handle. It wasn't something she deserved.

"Natasha," he asked. He cradled her face in his rough calloused palms, trying to seek out her eyes with his. The pain and the fear he could see swirling in her green eyes made his heart clench. She bit her lip before breaking their eye contact. She couldn't look into his stormy blue eyes and see all that concern and love shining back at her. She wanted to cry, and that wasn't something she was used to. The Black Widow did not cry.

She was out of his arms and running so quickly that he barely had time to blink. He was almost sure she pulled at least some of her stitches bolting away as quickly as she had. He sighed and put his head in his hands, forcing himself to breathe. Grabbing their forgotten mugs, he went inside to wash them as he tried to give her the space she obviously wanted.

He stood outside the bathroom door listening to the water run. He would have sworn he could feel the steam from the shower escaping from the bathroom through the crack under the door. When Clint heard her strangled sob somewhat muffled by the pouring water, he knocked. "Tasha."

"Go away." Her mumbled words could barely be heard over the water.

"I'm coming in," he announced. He couldn't let her cry by herself. He wanted to comfort her, wrap her in his arms and make everything better. Clint picked the lock easily, and the steam escaped from the small bathroom quickly as he opened the door. Natasha leaned heavily against the sink, bracing herself with tense forearms that shook slightly. Her back curved and her head drooped slightly. Her red curls hiding her face from view. He turned off the water and moved to stand behind her, wrapping arms tightly around her waist. His cheek rested against her shoulder blade. "Tasha," his voice breathed against her back.

She pictured him rocking their child, singing lullabies and giving a bottle. Her heart ached to see that scene, to have that idea be a reality, but she knew she couldn't bring a child into this world. All three options seemed equally inappropriate and impossible.

"Talk to me, Tasha." He slowly turned her in his arms. His rough palms cradled her face gently. "You don't have to work this through by yourself," he reminded her. "I'm right here." His thumb swiped tenderly at a tear that escaped. One hand shifted to tangle in her hair, bringing her to him in an embrace, as his other hand wrapped around her back.

"I'm pregnant," she mumbled.

"We," he corrected. She looked up at him, an unspoken question swimming in her eyes. "It's been we since you took my hand in Budapest."

"Which time?" She whispered despite herself. "The time you didn't kill me, the time I almost died, the time you almost died, or the time you decided to get married amidst gunfire?"

He laughed softly at her question, kissing her forehead. "From Day One, Tasha, it's been you and me."

"Maybe I should give birth in Budapest," she mused. "Everything important happens in Budapest." The words came out of her mouth before she could catch them. Her brow furrowed for a second, but she quickly schooled her features. Her brain worked through things a mile a minute. She had the reassurance she needed from him. She couldn't abort their child. She had done enough killing in her life. She knew she couldn't add that red to her ledger; she would never be able to balance that out. She couldn't give a child up for adoption, as she would always be second guessing herself and working about the child. That left her with one option, and god, she wanted to see Clint be a father. If he had her back, she could make this work. She could work her way through it.

"Give birth," Clint choked out. He pulled her back a little, so he could look her in the eyes. She kissed him softly, chastely, and tenderly. "Give birth," he asked again. "Tasha?"

"You get to tell Stark he has to build a nursery in our suite in the Avengers' Tower." He nodded happily, a huge grin breaking across his face. His arms wrapped around her, and he spun her in a circle.

"I'll tell the whole damn world, Tasha. We're going to have a baby. We're going to have a family."

"The whole damn world, maybe not, but you also get to tell Fury."

He groaned into her hair. She responded with a laugh. "We are definitely not talking about Fury right now. His bald, shiny head will not ruin this moment."

"He's good at that," she confirmed. "But I may have a different way to ruin the moment." He pulled back and looked at her. "I pulled my stitches." Clint groaned again, turning her around to get a good look. Blood slowly dripped from two of the wounds on the back of her legs.

He sighed before grabbing the first aid kit from the cabinet to the left, ushering her into their bedroom. "Let's hope our child doesn't have your penchant for not listening to doctors."

"Banner is going to have his hands full."

"Avengers Tower will never be the same again."

"Damn straight," she laughed despite the needles threading through her sore skin. "Well fuck," she mumbled into the pillow. She felt his eyes on her. "No vodka," she answered the unspoken question.

"I think there's a rule about coffee too."

"You have got to be shitting me." She flipped over to look at him. "We might have to figure something else out. I'm not good without my coffee. Maybe Stark can invent something that will let you carry the little hawk."

"Why isn't he or she a little spider?"

"Because spiders have numerous babies at a time, Clint. I think we'll have our hands full with one."

"Do you know anything at all about how hawks have babies?"

"Shut up and sew, bird boy."


	2. Chapter 2

Author's Note: Wow. Because I was overwhelmed by the story alerts and reviews and everything, I rushed to get this chapter posted for you all. A shout out to tardiswing and pinkhairedharry for some of the ideas strewn throughout this chapter. As always, please let me know what you think! I love reviews, and I love hearing ideas readers have about what they want to see in the story.

Disclaimer: I own nothing. I'm just taking Marvel and Joss' characters and playing around for a bit.

Four days into their vacation, they ran out of coffee. Natasha almost stabbed him with a fork. Sitting at the small table in their kitchen, he looked over his plate of pancakes and mumbled that their stash of caffeine had depleted. The grimace on her face, the icy glare in her eyes, and the imperceptible twitch in her knife hand had him scrambling to find his car keys. When the fork, still sticky with syrup, sailed past his head, he all but ran from the cottage, forgetting his shoes and his wallet, both of which were thrown through the door after him.

She didn't even look up when he came in. She just focused on the page in front of her as she said, "You don't value your life nearly enough, Barton. What happened to that line about a hefty amount of coffee?" He had stopped being surprised by her ability to sense his arrival long ago. He smiled but said nothing as he organized what was purchased into the kitchen.

Two days later, she was firing at a tree from the deck. "Are we out of ammo?"

"Said the pregnant assassin recovering from stitches on vacation?"

"First of all, it's not recovering from stitches. Who says that? You're an idiot. Secondly, answer the question before I take your beloved bow out for a spin."

"It is recovering stitches when said stitched person rips them out every other day. Touch my bow, and die."

"It's not my fault my husband can't keep his hands to himself, and really, Barton, like you could kill me. We both know I can kick your ass any day." She walked in from the deck to find her husband flipped over the couch. His ankles crossed and rested on the back of the couch as his head dangled off the edge of the couch cushion. "Why in the world are you looking at our living room upside down?" He grunted his response and looked at her.

"You're pretty upside down."

"Yeah, okay. We're going crazy. It's time to go back to Avengers Tower."

"Thank God." Clint did a quasi-somersault off the couch, landing flat on his stomach on the floor with a nice _oomph_.

"Wow," Natasha drawled slowly, barely containing her laughter.

"That kind of hurt my stomach," he groaned with a smile as he lifted into push-up position and then onto his feet.

"You're such a pussy," she teased as he sauntered towards her. He gave her a mock pout, and she patted his face, though it was more of a gentle slap. "Did the mean couch hurt you?"

"Your mockery hurts me. I'm wounded." He drew out the vowels in the last word, receiving a tremendous eye roll in return. She crossed her arms over her chest and fixed him with a look that he knew meant _I-love-you-that-doesn't-mean-I-won't-punch-you_. "So on that note, I'm going to go pack." He stole a kiss before retreating quickly to the bedroom.

•••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

The look on Stark's face was absolutely priceless. His jaw went slack for a moment, and it was clear that his mind was reeling. He spent about 45 seconds trying to piece together how he himself had not put two-and-two together. "So you're technically Natasha Barton?"

"I'm sure you didn't mean to say that as condescending as it sounded," Barton interjected from his spot at the table. "It sounds like you're surprised she picked me."

"Were you married when you were Natalie Rushman?"

"We've been partners for ten years. You delivered supplies to a joint safe house. How in the world in your perverted mind did you not get that we were sleeping together?"

"That's not even remotely an answer," he grumbled. "Were you even legally of age when you defected from Mother Russia? And in my defense, I always thought you were sleeping with him. I just didn't think you had the capability to wed and feel and love and feel. Ya know the whole Black Widow moniker? I'm surprised you aren't dead yet, Barton. Though I've seen you two spar, it's not for lack of trying."

"Ignore him. He's just being obnoxious because he and his nosy self didn't figure out you were married. Congratulations by the way, however belated they may be," Banner said.

"Well Stark, you may want to grab your balls and kiss your ass goodbye because she's pregnant," Barton blurted out.

Natasha just looked at him and rolled her eyes. "Really? That's how you decide to tell them? Kiss your ass goodbye? God, I hope you find a more couth way of explaining the situation to Fury."

At that, Rogers was choking on his drink. "Can we back up a few paces?" He sputtered in the midst of knocking on his chest repeatedly.

"Pregnant. With child. Bun in the oven. Knocked up. Eating for two. Her eggo is preggo?" Barton started listing all sorts of sayings, and the poor captain just stared at him with a slack jaw.

"Her eggo? What's an eggo?"

"Her eggs, Captain. Her eggs are pregnant. It's on play on the modern breakfast food," Banner tried to explain. Cue spit take number two as Steve spewed his water across the table.

"Congratulations," he all but whimpered, trying desperately to clear his face of the telltale blush of embarrassment.

"I have questions," Stark demanded. "I have lots of questions."

"I'll answer five," Natasha informed him. Of course, Stark heard that as a chance to negotiate.

"Twenty."

"Five."

"Fifteen."

"Five."

"Ten."

"Five," she repeated and gave him a pointed look.

"Five," he agreed with a sullen pout. "How long have you been married?"

"Four years."

"How far along are you?"  
"I don't know."

"Does Fury know you're married?"

"He does now."

"Does SHIELD know you're pregnant?

"Not yet."

"Have you written your will? Because I call your guns."

"What," Clint and Natasha responded simultaneously.

"Because you know Fury is going to tear you a new one. In other words, you're both dead meat, and I call dibs on his exploding arrow tips too!"

"You're such a child," Natasha shook her head. "Fury isn't going to kill us."

"No, of course not, he's going to welcome an assassin baby with open arms. Can't you just imagine it? A curly red-headed child running around shooting Nick Fury on his bald head with a toy bow-and-arrow. Of course, Fury is going to be like a Cyclops grandfather. That's not intimidating at all." Clint couldn't help but laugh at Banner's comment. The scientist was usually quiet, but he had a biting wit, which made him the perfect friend for Stark, who was getting a kick of Banner's comment as well.

"If you could give me a heads up when you decide to inform the old man of your eggo, not only do I want to be there, but I want to sell tickets. It's going to be fantastic." A fork hit Tony smack dab on the forehead. "Hey now, Spidey, play nice," he chastised, rubbing the spot with his palm.

"That IS nice, Stark," she emphasized. "I could have stabbed you with it or thrown it in such a way that it impaled your head. Given the previous options, being knocked on the head with a piece of cutlery doesn't sound so bad, does it?"

"The next nine months are going to be splendid, aren't they?" Stark groaned as he dropped his head unceremoniously onto the table. "Who wouldn't want to witness the world's deadliest assassin battling pregnancy, morning sickness, emotional roller coasters, and hormones? I may start permanently wearing my suit."

•••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

"Hill, in my office, now."

"Yes sir."

Hill stood at attention just inside the closed door of the Director's office. "Since my two best agents decided to waltz off base and announce a long vacation, I decided to flip through their jackets. As their handler, I thought you could provide some further insight." Hill nodded, but said nothing. "Care to have a seat or a drink? If I know them at all, I'm going to need a drink." After Hill sat down, she started to relax. She had always been Fury's left hand man as Coulson had been his right. "First, did Coulson know they were married?"

"Yes sir."

"Son of a bitch," he shook his head. Her eyes widened a little bit. "You cannot place a bet if you already know the answer to the question on which money is being bet. Still, he owes me 30 bucks. I was right."

"Sir?" Hill asked. She realized she had been doing a lot of that confused up talking in the conversation.

"It's about damn time. How long have they been married? Hell, I half expected them to be married when he dragged her ass in here after he couldn't shoot her in Budapest the first time. If they were married then, I don't want to know. She was 18 when she defected, right?"

"16," Hill corrected.

"Yeah, I don't want to know if they were married when he brought her back in that slip knot concoction he called handcuffs."

"They've been married four years. Coulson was their witness during a shoot-out in Budapest, ironically enough."

"Isn't that Assassin 101? Don't fall in love with another assassin? Isn't that the entire premise of that Angelina Jolie movie? What is it?"

"Mr. and Mrs. Smith."

"That one. Isn't the entire premise of that movie about not falling in love with an assassin?"

"Actually, that movie is about how two assassins are married, are hired to kill each other, and manage to make it work romantically and professionally."

"Well isn't that a load of crap?"

"Cinematically, enough action to keep people engaged. Realistically, action scenes are crap, though they usually are. Though making it work, sir, Romanov and Barton seem to have a good handle on it."

"Coulson always said that. He said something about how watching them fight was like watching a choreographed dance, even when he just brought her in."

"Yes sir. They sense each other's movements. They move seamlessly whether it's as partners in a firefight or opponents on the mat. Coulson believed in soul mates. He believed that's why Barton couldn't loose the arrow when he had the chance."

"Coulson thought they could make it work?"

"Yes sir, he did."

"Do you think they can make it work without being compromised in the field?"

"They've been compromised from Day One, sir. Whether we want to acknowledge it or not, that's how their partnership works. It doesn't affect their professionalism though. They've taken bullets and beatings to save the other. Even before they were married, before they were romantically involved, their loyalty has been to each other first and foremost."

"Is it a weakness in the field?"

"No, not the way I see it and not the way Coulson saw it. She will do whatever it takes to keep him alive. He will do the same for her. From an organizational point, sir, our best assets are keeping each other from dying. From a handler's perspective, it's going to compromise them more by splitting them up. They do their best work together. They're the best team SHIELD has for now. Having them on solo missions would be a detriment."

"Point taken. Get their marriage license and put it in their files. You're free to go." Hill nodded and got up to leave. Before she reached the door, Fury stopped her. "What did you mean 'for now,' Hill?"

Her brow furrowed. "They're both getting older, sir."

"Mhmm," he hummed. "And the real reason you added that phrase to your sentence?"

"That's an interesting question. You may want that drink now." She turned around to face him and clasped her hands in front of her. Taking her advice, Fury took a long gulp of his whisky. "Agent Romanov is pregnant, sir." The undignified coughing choke that sputtered from the Director's throat was almost enough to make her laugh. Almost. After all, she did like her job, and laughing in such a way at the director of one of the world's greatest intelligence agencies was a fast track to the unemployment line, even if he was a friend.

"You did that on purpose," he accused. "She told you she was pregnant? Confirmed?"

"No sir. I don't think she knows unless Agent Barton informed her."

He downed the rest of his drink before continuing. "Let me get this straight. My two best agents have been married four years. Fine, I can handle that. Said agents are pregnant. A little less fine because I don't even want to imagine the type of sex two assassins have; a lot less fine because I can't imagine the whirlwind of terror that the child will be; a little more fine because I can't wait to watch Stark baby proof Avengers Tower. Coulson would get a kick out of that. What is a little disconcerting is that the mother in this equation is, to the extent of your knowledge, unaware she is pregnant, but her handler, her boss, her husband, and a slew of medical professionals all know she is pregnant. Do you see where I'm going with this, Agent Hill?"

"Barton is going to talk to her while they're away."

"Romanov is going to kill him. Why didn't the doctor who found the results follow protocol and tell her she was with child?"

"Sir, he's a medical professional. He has no training in weapons or self-defense. Would you really want him to be the one to the Black Widow that she's expecting a bundle of joy? He would be dead, sir. Barton, at least, can defend himself… sometimes."

"Am I running an organization where people can ignore protocol because they're intimidated by an agent?"

"She's not just an agent, Fury. She's the Black Widow, and if that's not intimidating enough, her partner is Hawkeye. They're our best agents for a reason. While it was against protocol and the information passage was a little unorthodox, you can't blame the man for a little self-preservation technique."

"Point taken. When they're back on base, I want a meeting with them."

"Yes sir." She saluted before leaving the office.

"Wow," he grumbled to himself after the door closed. "That child is in for a whole world of crazy."

•••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

"Tasha," Clint called as he walked into their suite. "Tasha."

"I'm afraid Mrs. Barton is not here, sir."

"Okay. Thanks JARVIS."

"Sir, would you like to know her whereabouts?"  
"No thanks. That takes the fun out of finding her."

She wasn't in their suite or on their floor. He reasoned his second best guess would be the basement training facility. When that struck out, he tried the common floors. He checked the movie lounge, the library, and even the garage. Then he started looking though his hiding places. When he finally found her, a good hour and a half after his search began; she was on the roof, sitting on the ledge with her legs dangling over the side while her body leaned against the protective railings surrounding the roof. "There you are. Let's hope our child isn't as good at hide-and-seek as you are." She nodded, her legs swinging rhythmically. "Tasha." He nudged her shoulder as he sat next to her, mimicking her position. She looked over at him, doubt in her eyes as she bit her bottom lip. "What's wrong?"

"We're assassins," she stated. "And when we're not assassins, we're one third of a team of super heroes who save the world from global catastrophes. Can we do this?" Natasha paused for a second, clearly mulling the words over in her head. He waited patiently. "That's not what I meant." She backtracked, although he wasn't offended by the question; he too had his doubts. What new parent didn't?

"I meant… I… I'm scared, Clint. This is nothing we were ever trained for. This is nothing I was ever trained for. Red Room," she paused again, grimacing as she worked through her words again. "They don't seem to have their programming down, but still, this is new. This is uncharted territory. This is emotions, nurture, comfort, and family. Clint, I can't do that. I'm horrible at that. I have no doubt that you will be a fantastic father. It's the thing that keeps me confident. I know, at least, this child will have you. I just… Can I do this? I'm the Black Widow. Nowhere is that moniker synonymous with anything maternal or family oriented. Just… Fuck, Clint. I don't know anymore."

"Can you love this child?"

"Yes. I already do."

"Do you want our child to be happy and healthy?"

"Of course."

"Then we will be just fine. Tasha, we're going to make mistakes. Like you said, we're two assassins having a baby, but all new parents make mistakes. No one is perfect. No one has a guidebook to help them. But hey, between the two of us, we know a million ways NOT to raise a child. That has to be worth something." She gave a soft laugh. "This child is going to be so loved, Tasha. That's what matters. Let's face it. The Avengers, we're a family. This child has three superhero uncles and an uncle who is a demi-god. It's going to be utter chaos, but the little nugget will be so loved. And I don't see what you see. I think you'll be a great mother." She scoffed at him, so he continued with his explanation.

"You hold a conversation with Banner about the latest science news, not because you're interested, but because he's interested. You know when to comfort Rogers when he's feeling homesick and when to drag him to the mats and make him spar. You know how to shut down Tony's obnoxious sense of humor and rambling ideas without damaging his pride or your relationship.

You're the Black Widow, yes, and that doesn't change because we have a baby. But you have a softer side. You trust. You love. You care. You think it's the comforting you're going to have the hardest time with, but you're wrong. I've felt it. I wake up from a nightmare and you're there. After a close call with a mission, you're there. I trust you, Tasha. You won't screw this up. Our child won't have your childhood or mine. Our child will have a childhood- an actual childhood filled with bubbles and toys and family." She dipped her head against his shoulder and he kissed the top of her head. "We're going to be okay, Tasha." And for once, she actually believed the platitude.

"Did it sound as weird as I thought it did to say 'little nugget?'"

She actually laughed out loud. "Yeah, Barton. Add that to the list of words you are not allowed to use in reference to the baby or me. Ever."

"I still don't know why you rejected some of them. They're sweet!" His proclamation got him an eye roll. She didn't make a move to push him off the roof, so Clint decided to push his luck. "I mean come on, Tasha. What's wrong with baby, love of my life, lovebird, ladylove, baby cakes, sugar lips, my enchantment, honey, babe, pearl, and sweetheart? Oh! I've got a new one!" She sent him a warning look, but there was a smirk dancing in her eyes. "I shall call you Dumpling!"

She got off the ledge and walked away, shaking her head. "No Dumpling then. How about Tootsie? Buttercup? Honey Bun? Lamb?" When the roof top access slammed, he couldn't help but laugh. Had someone told him that his life would take this turn- married with a baby on the way- he would have shot said person. But sitting on the roof of Avengers Tower, probably locked out of the main building thanks to his lovely wife and her undeniable hatred for pet names, he couldn't imagine his life any other way. "Good thing you're good at embracing the craziness, ya old carnie," he mocked himself as he climbed off the ledge.

•••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

It wasn't until they were lying in bed that night when he brought up part of her conversation on the roof. The blackout curtains were drawn, and the room was cold. He rolled onto his side, propped his head up with his elbow, and reached a hand to her stomach to pull her close to him. "Tasha?"

"Hmm," she mumbled.

"What did you mean when you said they didn't have their programming down?"

"Hmm," she mumbled, but he could hear a difference. "I…" He felt her grimace. He felt her rib cage rise and fall as she drew in a deep, stabilizing breath. "Red Room," she started. "They're good at what they do, at getting what they want. You're broken and pieced back together just to be broken again. They do it over and over again until you've been beaten into a cold, calculated killer who's efficient and deadly. You're beaten and sculpted until your first instinct isn't defending but attacking. You're always on alert, always waiting. You don't have trust. You don't have love. You have your experience telling you that life hurts and it's not fair. If you don't feel, you don't hurt. You start to feel and they take everything away in a way that destroys everything good." Her voice was strong, calm, and collected. It was as though she was speaking of someone else's past.

"Tasha," he soothed.

"I was twelve. I made a friend in a new recruit. She was ten, and I could hear her crying in the middle of the night. I tried to comfort her. She was my friend. Our handler found out. And I was ordered to kill the little girl. It was my first kill, and she was my friend." The slight tremor in her voice gave away her true feelings, though no one would have picked up on it but him. He pulled her closer. She paused, taking another deep breath. "Red Room doesn't expect you to live to be able to have kids. They train child assassins. Very few make it to puberty, even fewer to adulthood. It's a procedure of sorts. Basically, they found a way to ensure that even if their assassins live to be adults that they can never have children. They didn't have their programming down because not only am I alive, not only do I trust and love, but I'm pregnant, which means their procedures, their programming, failed."

He kissed her forehead and tried to pull her impossibly closer. Before he asked the question, he knew he wasn't going to like the answer. "What do you mean by procedure, Tasha?" She tensed in his arms, and he thought she was going to bolt.

"Nothing good," she responded softly. He hated Red Room. He had always hated them since the first night they had spent in Budapest with her curled in a ball in the corner and him trying to figure out the words to say to Fury to convince the director that she wasn't a wild card. There was nothing to be said that could make it better, so he curled around her as if to protect her from the world. Blindly, he kissed her in the dark, declared his love in a whisper against her lips, and sent a prayer to anyone listening for a dreamless sleep.

•••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

"We're going to have a pint-sized ninja baby in Avengers Tower," Stark said, still trying to wrap his head around the words coming out of his mouth. He sipped at his bourbon thoughtfully.

"Be nice, Tony," Pepper scolded.

"Technically, the baby isn't going to just be a pint-sized ninja baby," Barton informed him from his bar stool. "That term is fantastic, by the way. I've got to remember to tell Tasha that one."

"I need to build you cutlery-proof skin suit or something. Romanov loves to throw things at us."

"And rightly so. You two are idiots," Pepper interjected. "You're either mortal enemies or partners in crime. It's much easier to hit both of you first and then ask questions." Tony scoffed at her. "I don't have her aim, so I resort to smacking you both on the head. It's effective. Speaking of effective, where is Natasha?"

Barton mumbled something into his drink. "What was that, Robin Hood? Did you get in trouble? Are you in time out?" For his mockery, Pepper smacked the back of his head. "Hey!"

"I warned you to be nice. Don't make me do it again."

"Legolas, we're going drinking! Come on! We'll leave Spidey to sulk and brood or whatever pregnant assassins do in their spare time, and we need to get out of Pepper's range of hitting."

"Tony, I've managed to coral you into submission from China. My wrath is far reaching." It was said with such a sweet smile that he could almost believe there wasn't a threat swirling under her sugar coated words. "Don't let him die, Tony. If you kill him, Natasha kills you. Oh! And then my life is a lot easier." She paused, mockingly contemplating something in her head. "Then again, Natasha would be sad. Don't let him die."

"Ma'am, yes ma'am. Robin to the Bat Mobile!"

"That reference had nothing to do with archery. You lose." Barton quipped with a smirk as he sauntered to the elevator, already feeling the effects of a few classes of Tony's expensive bourbon.

The two men climbed into the elevator discussing the pros and cons of certain bars in the area. "JARVIS," Pepper called. "Keep an eye on them, please. This never ends well."

•••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

"So you're going to be a dad? That's something," Stark said as he waved over the bartender, ordering another rounds of shots.

"So you're going to be an uncle? That's something," Barton countered. When Tony stared at him with a confused look, the archer shrugged simply. "We're more than a team, Stark. You know that as well as I do. This crazy conglomeration of people is a family, yes?" The older man nodded. "If you're family and I have a kid, that makes you the kid's uncle."

"I can build an infant Iron Man suit. The child will be well-dressed and protected at all times."

"If you build the child a suit, Natasha will murder you."

"What about Iron Man themed clothing? One-sies," he exclaimed loudly. "I will find Iron Man themed one-sies."

"Oh, yippe," Barton returned in mock excitement.

"So how does this work, Daddy?"

"No, no. You don't call me that ever. Go back to your depleting list of archer nicknames."

"Snippy little Robin Hood."

"I don't know how this works. Ideally, we stop being agents and become consultants, I guess. We stay Avengers because how many people can feed seamlessly into that crazy team and deal with the narcissistic asshole that chatters constantly into the comm link?" Stark offered a smirk.

"You love my commentary and you know it."

"Maybe we do security consulting instead of missions. Maybe we just do consulting for SHIELD on the missions that others can't accomplish. Maybe we just live normally and save the world when needed."

"You and Romanov, normal? Oh please, Katniss. You wouldn't know normal it knocked you on your ass. Is she going to keep going on missions until her due date? When is her due date?"

"I don't know, Stark. She's as stubborn as you are. She'll maim the people who treat her like a fragile object while she's pregnant though. She hates when people tiptoe around her."

"Oh yeah, Rogers is going to get forked. We need to replace the steak knives in the kitchen with something less sharp for the time being."

"We need to make sure the first aid cabinet is fully stocked with hydrogen peroxide and sterile gauze."

"Ain't that the truth," Stark agreed while motioning to the bartender for more shots. "Are you keeping track of alcohol?"

"No, I stopped the tally after the green drinks."

"Well shit."

•••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

"Mr. Stark and Mr. Barton have returned," JARVIS announced to Pepper and Natasha. "They're in the elevator."

"Reroute them to this floor please," Pepper declared. She stood from the couch, smoothing her skirt as she did so. Natasha sat on the arm of the couch facing the elevators and controlled her face to hide the smirk that was threatening to show.

_And did you write the book of love? Do you have faith in God above if the Bible tells you so? _Barton's singing voice filtered through the hallway before the elevator doors opened. When Tony continued on with the classic _American Pie_ verse in a rough baritone, Natasha almost laughed, the hidden grin dancing in her eyes. _Now do you believe in rock and roll? Can music save your mortal soul? And can you teach me how to dance real slow?_ When Barton waltzed from the elevator in a flourish of jazz hands, Natasha stifled her laugh behind her hand before schooling her features. Stark grapevined out of the elevator and continued singing. _Well, I know that you're in love with him cause I saw you dancin' in the gym. You both kicked_… "Off… Oh hello, Miss Potts."

"Tony."

"Dance with me."

"You're drunk."

"I can dance. Look," Stark attempted the Macarena.

"You look like a flailing fish," Barton commented from where he leaned heavily against the wall. "Hi Tasha." She nodded at him, no longer trying to hide her amusement.

"Dance with me," Stark all but demanded. "JARVIS, play us a jig."

"Come on, let's go to bed, you drunken buffoon," Pepper chastised as she gripped his waist and led him back to the elevator. "Night guys," she called over her shoulder.

"Dance with me," Barton asked hopefully.

"I've got a better place we can dance," Natasha teased softly as she passed him. She ambled to the elevator. With a seductive wink over her shoulder, "You coming or not? I'm more than capable of dancing by myself." The drunken archer practically stumbled over himself to get to her before the elevator door closed.


	3. Chapter 3

Disclaimer: Despite my wishes, I still own nothing. It depresses me. Though reviews make me happy, so technically you can control my happiness!

"It feels like an elephant sat on my head, Tasha."

"That's what happens when you go drink for drink with Tony Stark. Advil's on the nightstand."

"Soft voice, Tasha. Shh," he shushed, his mumbles muffled in the pillow.

"Come on, carnie. Up you go. Take the Advil. Do you smell something burning?"

"Ten bucks says Thor's back from wherever the hell he was and toasted his stupid PopTarts into oblivion. It really shouldn't be that hard for someone to make PopTarts."

"Last time I checked you burned toast, smart ass."

"Toast is more of a culinary delicacy than PopTart."

"You're full of shit, Barton."

"I want PopTarts now."

"Barton, you're naked."

"Can you be bribed to get me PopTarts?" Natasha raised her eyebrows at her husband's request. "My head hurts, and I want PopTarts with my Advil."

"You are such a baby."

Natasha threw on a robe and went down to the kitchen where she ran into Pepper and Thor. The taller woman walked around barefooted in denim shorts and a large band t-shirt while the demi-god frowned deeply at the toaster. "JARVIS, please make sure Thor doesn't burn this box of PopTarts. I can't stand that crispy smell anymore."

"I'm sorry, Lady Potts. We do not have this technology on Asguard. Good morning, Lady Natasha."

"Hey, Thor. I see Stark has you corralling breakfast as well, Pepper."

"He's a lazy jackass," she grumbled. "How is your drunken idiot?"

"My drunken idiot demands PopTarts."

"Men are great," Pepper replied sarcastically.

"Thank you," Thor accepted cheerfully. Pepper started to explain the sarcasm to the blonde god, but decided against it, opting instead for her cup of coffee. Natasha shook her head as well, her red curls swaying in the process.

"Ms. Romanov, Director Fury for you."

"Oh, swell. This morning actually does get better," Natasha grumbled sarcastically as Pepper laughed at her expense.

"Good luck with that one. Thor, please don't burn down the kitchen. I'm going to feed Stark in the hopes he comes less of a drunken jackass." The tall woman excused herself after a pointed look at the god, who glared ominously at the toaster.

"Fury," the agent addressed as she picked up the closest handset.

"We need you to come in."

"We're on vacation."

"It's urgent."

"I'm not taking the mission in Russia. Sir, I cannot do a multiple year undercover mission."

"That's not why we're calling you. It should be in an in-and-out mission for Agent Barton, Captain Rogers, and yourself. Be on base in an hour." She confirmed, keeping her general unhappiness out of her voice.

"JARVIS, please inform Captain about Fury's request. Enjoy your breakfast, Thor." She nodded to the older man before grabbing two PopTarts and her coffee and retreating to their suite. "We've got to be on base in an hour. Eat up. Don't vomit. Take Advil, and suit up." The archer looked at her with bleak eyes from his prone spot on the bed.

"You have got to be fucking kidding me. Does Fury need a dictionary? Last time I checked 'vacation' meant the stupid bald man goes the fuck away."

"I'm taking a shower. JARVIS is getting Captain put together, and your bumbling ass is my problem apparently. Get moving, Barton." She left him to shower and get ready.

He grumbled as he swung his feet to the ground, bracing his upper body on the mattress behind him. "Mother fuck." He scrubbed a hand over his face. He started to count down to standing. "One, two, two and a quarter… two and a half… two and two thirds… Fuck. Oh god," he moaned as he shuffled to the bathroom to vomit. "This mission is going to be fan-fucking-tastic," he coughed into the bowl. "It's going to be really entertaining to see if I can stand long enough to shoot." He threw up again before dragging himself into the shower as Natasha got out. She rolled her eyes, but said nothing. "Once I can function, I'm going to shoot Stark in the face with an arrow."

After downing a very disgusting hangover remedy created by JARVIS and nearly emptying his stomach again, Barton sat grumpily in the back of a SHIELD vehicle headed towards the nearest base with Captain at the wheel and Natasha in the passenger seat. He made a mental note to ask for the recipe for that hangover cure because ten minutes into the drive, he was already starting to feel like a non-functional pile of limbs and more like a mostly useless human. _It's a step in the right direction_, he thought to himself grimly.

•••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

Fury threw three matching manila folders across the conference room table to the three people. "There's a gala tonight. In attendance is Nikodim Ioakim, a known arms dealer. We need information on the next weapons hand-off. The Council wants him alive and brought in for further questioning. He likes unavailable women, so Captain, Romanov; congratulations you're a married couple. Flaunt it. Romanov, you get the information and call for extraction when necessary. Barton, watch from the rafters inside the building. Got it? Great."

"Is it best to be in such close proximity to a dangerous man given the current situation?" Captain posed the question, genuinely concerned, but it made Natasha see red.

"And what situation would that be, Captain?" Fury demanded. "From past experience, it is clear that Agent Romanov can handle herself in the most complicated of situations. Is there something I need to know?"

"No, Director," the agent interjected. "I can do my job, Captain," she said, her voice dangerously calm.

"I'm just trying to look out for your well-being, Romanov. Given the circumstances, is it wise for you to be in the field?" When he met Natasha's narrowed, icy glare, the star-spangled superhero paled.

"What the fuck is going on," the Director demanded, his palms slapping the table loudly. Barton barely contained the wince as the loud noise caused his headache to throb mercilessly. He wanted nothing more than to remove his hearing aids and go to sleep. That wasn't in the cards though, and he couldn't help but want to kick Stark in the stomach. "Captain, why is it you think Romanov is not capable of doing her job? Is she slipping in her duties as an agent?" Rogers clenched his jaw and refused to look at the either of his assassin comrades. He could feel Natasha glaring a hole into the side of his head. He doubted even his shield would protect him from her wrath this time. "I asked you a question, Captain. As your superior, I demand an answer."

"Agent Romanov is more than capable of doing her job, sir."

"That's what I thought. Plane leaves in forty minutes. All three of you will need formal, black-and-white-tie attire. Romanov, don't kill him. Dismissed." The Director didn't specify whom she shouldn't kill, but he figured the general directive should keep her teammates alive. He was impressed that Barton hid his hung over well, and Captain seemed to backtrack enough to cover his ass, though he was sure Romanov would snap at both her teammates before the mission was accomplished.

•••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

"Natasha." Captain tried to speak. She sent him a narrowed glare and focused on checking her weapons. "It wasn't my place. I am sorry. I'm just trying to look out for your child."

She closed her eyes and took a deep breath before seething, "I am not fragile, and I'm more than capable of doing my job." The agent fell back on her training, eliminating emotion from her train of thought and instead memorized the file meticulously. Barton watched her slip into her role as the Black Widow. When he was sure Captain was engrossed in the file, he nudged her gently with his knee. He was met with the emotionless, calm façade of the Widow. He offered a small, but genuine smile. Her returning nod was almost imperceptible.

Once in the hotel room reserved by SHIELD, the team got ready, each person slipping into his or her formal attire. Rogers adjusted his bowtie and smoothed back his hair. Natasha efficiently knotted Barton's tie before the archer tightened the holster for his back-up weapon on his ankle. In turn, he zipped up his wife's sapphire gown. She checked her own weapon at her ankle as well as the knives held in sheaths between her thighs and breasts. Her red hair was twisted in a loose up-do with few strands dangling to frame her face.

Barton left the room first, checking his comm link subtly as he went. Fifteen minutes later, Rogers and Romanov left as well to join the gala function happening in the ballroom. In the elevator, they checked their comm links. Natasha glared at him furiously before the doors slid open to reveal the overly decorated ballroom. She clutched Roger's forearm, perfectly playing her part of the attentive wife. Captain, for his part, seemed a little uncomfortable. He was a soldier, not a spy. This was not his area of expertise.

"Cap, breathe. You look like a constipated penguin. You've got a pretty lady on your arm; loosen up," Barton instructed over the comm from his perch in the rafters. Years of training and countless missions listening to her partner's commentary in her ear kept Natasha's face clear of any laughter. Mark is at the bar. It looks like he has four guards in the room at 2, 4, 8, and 10, and one on his six. Natasha licked her lips briefly, her sign for understanding.

The couple on the floor worked their way slowly over to the bar, chatting amongst the patrons and blending from one conversation to the next. Natasha played her part exceptionally, clinging to Captain's forearm and leaning into him ever so slightly. Occasionally, she would laugh aloud and lean in to whisper something in his ear, pretending to share a joke or secret. Rogers kept his hand on her back.

"Slide your hand lower, Cap. She's supposed to be your wife, not your elderly grandmother." Rogers coughed a little to cover his discomfort before inching his hand down slowly. "Keep going, Captain. Put your hand on the small of her back. You need to be more convincing. Loosen up."

The band in the far corner started playing a lively tune. "Dance with me," Natasha requested happily, a grin strategically placed. Rogers nodded brusquely. He held her as he would have held a woman in the 1940s, and she almost groaned. Snaking her arms around his neck and pulling him close, she whispered in his ear. "Ioakim's got his eyes on me. When the song ends, excuse yourself." He looked like he was about to argue, but he bit his tongue. He couldn't call the plays here. This wasn't what he was familiar with. This wasn't a firefight. This was a mission for a spy. He needed to play his part because Fury wanted Hawkeye on guard. He had his orders, so when the song ended, he brusquely excused himself, leaving Natasha on the dance floor.

She huffed exasperatedly, easily falling into the role of an unsatisfied wife. She gracefully retreated from the floor to the bar where she smiled sadly at the bartender. She let her Russian accent blend into her English as she ordered a drink. Ioakim leaned over; clearly interested in the character she was playing.

"I see your dance partner abandoned you to dance alone. That is no way to treat a lady."

"My husband, he's very uncomfortable at these kind of events I'm afraid."

"You have a Russian accent. Perhaps from Moscow?"

"Да, да. Я первоначально от Москвы. Себя и?" She responded fluently in Russian, confirming his suspicion of her origins while asking for his own.

"English, Tasha. Captain can't understand Russian," Barton reminded her.

"Мой супруг от Америки. Он не любит когда я говорю русского. Он чувствует из места. Можем мы поговорить в английском вместо? Я не хотел бы сделать его чувствовать больше дискомфортным." Natasha amended her original statement, smiling dejectedly at her mark. "My name is Tatiana."

"What did she say?" Rogers asked through the comm.

"She said my husband is from America. He doesn't like when I speak Russian. He feels out of place. Can we speak English instead? I wouldn't want to make my husband anymore uncomfortable," Barton translated smoothly.

"Nikodim," the mark introduced himself with an offered hand. "You are a very striking woman, Tatiana. I must say, though, you look like someone from my past. I too am from Moscow."

"Ah," she smiled happily. "Red-headed Russian girls are not hard to come by, Nikodim."

"Indeed. The woman to whom you look so familiar is a woman from a lifetime ago. I remember her only in terms of a fire, and it was decades ago. The striking beauty is familiar though. Forgive me for being so rash."

"Thank you for the compliment. I appreciate it kindly. My husband and I have reached what Americans refer to as the seven year itch. Have you heard of it?"

"Yes, dissatisfaction with a current lover causes one or the other to seek other forms of intimacy," Nikodim confirmed. "Are you looking for such intimacy, Tatiana?"

"Perhaps," she flashed a flirty smile over her champagne and raised a seductive eyebrow. "Though that intimacy usually isn't encouraged in such a public place," she mentioned.

"I do know of quieter, more private locations, if that's what you prefer. Shall we go?" He offered her his arm. "Maybe in another location, we can both be more comfortable."

"I do miss speaking Russian," she pretended to confide in him. "My husband knows very few phrases, and while he tries, the language does not have the same comforting effect when the conversation is so stilted and terse." Nikodim nodded his understanding while leading her to a side elevator.

"Tell me, Tatiana. Are you a soundless lover?"

"There are very few things I do quietly. Then again, we aren't known for being a particularly quiet ethnicity, are we?" Nikodim laughed and pressed her against his body, waiting for the elevator to reach their destination.

"A very true statement. Another question, do you mumble in Russian in the throes of passion?"

"Not with my husband, I don't. He's not a very attentive lover though, too self-absorbed to focus on my pleasure. Will you be different Nikodim? If so, you may be able to pull a few Russian phrases out of me."

"Я всегда вверх для возможности," he responded as he led her down a hallway, waving off the guards.

"I am always up for a challenge," Barton translated for Rogers. "In addition, I would like to shoot this jackass. I don't care what the mission parameters say. He's so full of shit." Rogers snickered in response, but said nothing.

"Before we start the challenge, how about another drink," Natasha suggested. When he turned, she removed a tiny vile from her cleavage before pouring into his glass. The serum mixed with the bubbly champagne and blended with the drink almost immediately. "Cheers," she said excitedly with a clink of her glass. She sipped her glass politely as her companion took a large gulp. "I have a better idea for this champagne," she insinuated as she glanced down at her dress. "I've always tried to get my husband to be more adventurous in bed, and you said you were up for the challenge."

"Indeed, a challenge is always exciting." He downed his champagne, reaching for her hips as he placed the empty glass on the table. The mark kissed her fully; she kept her lips closed, but started walking him slowly back to the bed, removing his tie as she moved. He pulled away and looked at her with dazed eyes. She flashed him a flirty smile before dipping her head to kiss his neck. She pushed him onto the bed and excused herself to the restroom. When she returned to the room, the serum had done its job.

"He's out. Fourteenth floor, Room 31," she instructed her teammates. "He sent his guards away. Where I don't know, but keep an eye out. I'm calling for an extraction." As she set about the room securing the mark with slip ties, she found his phone and forwarded the appropriate messages to SHIELD. "We need to be on the roof in ten."

"Captain, you have the pleasure of carrying him to the roof," Barton declared as he made his way to the room. The comm link transmitted some grumbling, but Rogers didn't decline, throwing the unconscious man over his shoulders like nothing more than a sack of potatoes. "If you happen to knock his head on the door frame, I would be much obliged," Barton called after him.

•••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

"That was boring. Why did Fury need us for that," Barton grumbled from his seat on the jet. "I didn't even get to loose an arrow." Romanov fixed him with a look that clearly said _stop-acting-like-a-child_. He shot her a toothy grin and continued his list of complaints. "You make a very uncomfortable looking husband, Rogers."

"Undercover really isn't my strong suit. I'm more of a firefight person myself."

"You and me both. Can that even be deemed a mission? It was more like a carpool. What sort of arms dealer isn't overtly paranoid and cautious? He's an idiot."

"He seemed to recognize you there for a second," Captain noted, his statement geared toward Romanov. She arched her eyebrows, saying nothing. "Is it possible you met him and have forgotten his face?" Captain continued to push. She blinked slowly.

"No."

"Are there really that many Russian women with red hair? Your file mentions fires. It seemed coincidental." Romanov's head snapped to her left, fixing Captain with yet another death glare.

"You read my file," she stated, anger starting to tint the edges of her statement.

"Stark produced the files of all the Avengers. Was I not authorized to see it?"

"No."

"Tasha," Barton interrupted. "He meant no harm. He was just pointing out the coincidence." He knew by his partner's tone that Captain was two badly worded sentences away from being seriously injured, superhero or not. Her training easily hid her anger and frustration behind a veil of emotionless calm. She sat in silence for the rest of the flight, ignoring the conversational advances of both men.

Once in debriefing, she maintained her professional attitude. Falling back on her training, she focused on finishing the mission and ignoring the concerned glances Barton kept shooting her way as well as Roger's apologetic smiles. When Fury mentioned her pregnancy, she was hurtled back into reality. She barely avoided making a very undignified noise in her surprise.

"Rogers, are you convinced Agent Romanov can do her job despite her pregnancy? I will not take one of my best agents off of missions until absolutely necessary."

"Sir," Captain sputtered. "I never thought she could not complete missions, sir. I value her highly as a teammate and an agent. As a friend, I am worried for the health of the baby. I'm not sure if it's wise to put such an innocent life in so many dangerous situations." Captain's admission made her clench her fists under her desk.

"You know," Barton inquired, confusion etched in his brow as he looked around the table.

"I am the Director of SHIELD, Agent Barton, or did you forget that fact?"

"Right," the archer mumbled. "You don't seem particularly upset," he said, simply because the entire scenario was kind of anti-climactic considering how much yelling he had imagined in his head.

"I'm not particularly excited to have your offspring turning my base into a playground nor am I particularly happy to have my best agents on maternity or paternity leave for an extended period of time. That being said, this is not the Soviet Union. You are allowed to marry. You are allowed to have families. You are in control of your own lives. If you want to reproduce little demon archer ninjas, that's entirely your choice. I prefer you leave the child corralled at Avengers Tower if for no other reason that to irk Stark."

"Okay," Barton drawled slowly. "So you're saying," he paused and couldn't find the words to finish his statement.

"I'm saying congratulations, Agents Barton and Romanov. We will discuss maternity leave when you get closer to your due date. As for missions until then, the choice is yours, Agent Romanov."

"Is that safe," Captain questioned from his spot. "I don't mean to be impolite, but Natasha is mortal. Her uniform doesn't provide the most protection from bullets or blades. Is it safe for the baby to be in mission conditions? Is it safe for a pregnant woman to be in such conditions? I'm worried it could be too much stress on her body- pregnancy with its hormonal fluctuations and mission pressures." Barton almost reached over to cover Roger's mouth before he dug himself into a deeper hole. "Shouldn't we be handling this situation with more care and delicacy?" That did it. Barton could see her losing the control over her anger.

"We'll instruct Stark to start working on a bulletproof version of her current cat suit. Will that make you feel more secure about having her in a mission environment? Though keep in mind, Captain, this is her decision and not yours. We are only having this conversation because you are the team leader and I share some of your concerns, though I know Agent Romanov is more than capable of protecting herself and her child."

Natasha stood up suddenly and stormed out of the debriefing room. "Oh boy," Barton groaned when the door closed. "Rogers, I wouldn't sleep much tonight if I were you. She just might kill you."

"I didn't mean it in a condescending way. She is more than qualified in the field and a great teammate on missions. I'm just worried about the baby."

"The more you say that, Captain, the more it sounds like you think she's not taking the baby into consideration. It's a new situation, yes, but even before, she doesn't do anything recklessly. She analyzes each condition and determines the best course of action. Her training allows her to do that in a split second. It doesn't mean she's reckless or not taking into account the gravity of the situation, just that she doesn't need the time to formulate a plan and make a decision in the same amount of time others need." Clint tried to explain. "We know you're worried. We're a team. It's important to look out for one another, but can I encourage you to find a different way to voice your concerns? Bringing them up in a mission debriefing probably just rubbed salt in the wound." He could see the realization slowly dawn upon the other man, and he understood how badly he felt. Captain knew how private Natasha was, and he just unearthed his worries about her pregnancy in front of her boss.

"Oh no," he mumbled remorsefully.

"Good luck, gentlemen. You're dismissed. Barton, enjoy the rest of your vacation." The two men left the conference room to find a vehicle to return them to Avengers Tower. The archer pulled at his tie, unbutton the top few buttons of the starched white oxford shirt of his tux. He really wanted to tell Fury that Natasha was equally as pissed at him for discussing his concerns with Captain in front of her as if she wasn't in the room or privy to the conversation. He bit his tongue and kept walking. He could feel the anger radiating off of her in waves from wherever she was. He would bet a new bow that she had locked herself away in the training facility at the tower doing merciless combinations on a punching bag.

"I am sorry. When the Director mentioned her pregnancy, I forgot we were there in such a professional capacity. I see him as a friend occasionally, and I forgot we were not in that context."

"I know, Captain. I do. I get it. I understand why you're worried. She's my wife and it's my child. I trust her not to run head first into a dangerous situation without considering the life she carries. I also trust her decision if she decides to take on that situation. She is more than capable of protecting herself. She can hold her own. She always has."

"I know that, Barton. I'm just saying we can't always control the situation. Sometimes, missions just go to hell in the blink of an eye. I would feel endlessly guilty if she were to be injured in such a way that the baby is jeopardized under my command."

"We're assassins. We know the risks we take every time we suit up. The job defines us. This is what we were each trained to do. Having a child doesn't change the fact that we'll still do these jobs. It just means we'll have something more to look forward to when we come home. We all will. We're not moving out of Avengers Tower. This baby is going to grow up around family."

"If Natasha still considers me family after I betrayed her," Captain mumbled dejectedly.

"Give her time. Let her beat out most of her frustration on the punching bag before you talk to her, but you should talk to her, Cap. She won't cut you out of the baby's life. She does care about you. She wants this child to be safe, to be loved; we both do," Barton confided as they drove through darkened Manhattan streets. He was trying to reassure the other man that one mistake wouldn't put him on the outs with the growing family. "She knows you are worried about your future nephew or niece. She also knows you care about the child, and that means more than you know. Just talk to her. You may want to talk to Thor too. Give him a heads up that treating her with kid gloves will get him stabbed with a fork."

"She really likes to throw cutlery at unsuspecting people enjoying their breakfasts," Captain laughed.

"You? Unsuspecting? You're a superhero living with two other super heroes, a demi-god, and two resident assassins. You should be prepared for a lot more than flying cutlery. Plus you're practically immortal. You can't say you're scared of a fork."

"Wrong, Barton. Very wrong. When an irate Natasha is the one behind the fork, I'm scared of the silverware. I've seen her take down too many enemies with a throwing star or blade. I have a healthy appreciation of her aim as long as I'm not the one at the business end of any of her weapons, kitchen cutlery included." Barton's deep laughter filled the car as a quick retina scan let him into the garage of Avengers Tower. "So I should wait to talk to her then? Maybe tomorrow?"

"Well, I would bet money that not only is she destroying your hoard of punching bags downstairs but she's also fully armed. She'll shoot you if you talk to her now, not fatally because ultimately she's grown fond of you, but still, she'll shoot you nevertheless."

"Ah, I will approach her at another time when she doesn't have numerous loaded guns strapped to her person. Thank you for the insight, Clint," he said appreciatively as he stepped from the car and into the waiting elevator. The archer gave him a nod before heading to the stairs to find his partner.

•••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

Glancing at his watch, he figured it was going to be a long night, and yet he still wanted to kill Stark as he could feel the remnants of his hangover floating around him. It took him five minutes to pick the electronic lock on the door to the training facility. When it finally slid open, he stepped inside quietly, opting to perch on a table close by to watch before interrupting her. Given the sheen already coating her body, he figured she broke every speed limit in getting home and was pushing herself considerably hard for a nighttime exercise bout.

Forty-five minutes passed quickly as Barton continued to analyze the fluidity of her moves as well as her maintained intensity. When he could see her muscles quaking gently, he slid off the table and walked towards her, his dress shoes making a new sound against the matted floor. "Tasha, let's go upstairs," he tried to coax her away from the bag.

"I'm fine, Barton. Go back to watching quietly or leave."

"Natasha," he sighed. "Look at your hands."

"Really, you're going to pull me away because I bloodied up my knuckles. You're just as bad as they are."

"No, I'm not pulling you out because you bloodied your knuckles. I'm pulling you out because your muscles are quivering in the tell tale way that says you're done for the day unless you want to pass out from exhaustion. Come on. I'll give you a massage," he encouraged.

"Barton, I am fine. I'm going to finish my workout. I'll be up in a bit. I'm sure you want to get out of your tux and go to bed. Your hangover is still bothering your head."

"I'll wait." He didn't move from where he was standing. He watched her carefully. Her swings started to get wild, more and more of her frustration controlling the punches as opposed to her control. Her form was still impeccable, and most would not have been able to notice the slight change in her fighting as her muscles trembled with exhaustion and her anger kept her driving on. Having been her partner for ten years, he could read her body like a book whether she wanted him to or not. He was as observant as she was, and they knew each other too well.

After a particularly intense combination, she stopped, gripping the bag for support. Her shoulders quaked and her thighs trembled. She took deep breaths, stabilizing herself and finding her center of balance again, before stepping back just slightly and back into fighting stance. Before she could start the next sequence, Clint reached out to put a comforting hand on her shoulder. She turned and swung at him. He easily caught her punch, holding her wrist and bringing her to him. Her name tumbled from his lips in a request full of concern and love. As she noticed her hand shaking in his loose grasp, she nodded. Leaning a good amount of her body weight onto him, he led her into the elevator, glad to have the chance to help his usually stubborn and overly independent wife.

After a quick shower and freshly bandaged knuckles, the two lay in bed quietly watching the sunrise.

"Do you realize," she mumbled against his chest, "that our sleep schedule is going to get even more screwed up than it already is when we have this baby?"

"Sleep has already become a figment of my imagination. How could it possibly get worse?" She rolled her eyes at him softly, a smirk playing at the corners of her lips as he continued his sarcastic train of thought. "I mean think about it. This bed and I, we are perfect for each other. It understands me and fits to my body and is oh so comfortable," he crooned happily. "This bed and I should be together forever. It would be the perfect love affair. Then the phone rings. The phone doesn't want the bed and I to be together. The phone's a jealous whore," he stated very seriously. "So the bed and I have fleeting affairs always interrupted by the phone's shrill jealousy. It envies our love. How can it possibly get any worse?"

"Well, from what I've heard, babies tend to cry. A lot. Your so-called fleeting affairs with the mattress…" She paused to mock him mid sentence. "By the way, you're an idiot. Anyway, your so-called fleeting affair will be interrupted nightly, probably hourly, by the lovely sounds of an infant wailing for food or whatever."

"Great. I love loud noises when I'm sleeping. It's comforting like I'm sleeping in a war-zone. It's exactly what I want my time at home to be like."

"Tasha," he murmured moments later as she was just on the cusp of sleep. "We should probably invest in some baby books." She nodded against his chest, not really hearing the idea, only agreeing because it was the fastest way to silence him. "Love you," he whispered into her hair before finally drifting off himself.


	4. Chapter 4

Author's Note: Hello, hello! I hope you all enjoy this chapter. As always, I would love to know what you think. I tried to make the conversations more clear about who was saying what, and I incorporated in some ideas reviewers left. See, reviewing pays off! I do listen to you and I appreciate the time you all take when you review! Hope this chapter makes you laugh to make up from the angst in the previous chapter! I'm trying to keep it balanced.

Disclaimer: I still own nothing. I'm just playing around with Marvel's characters for a while. No infringement intended.

It was a fairly common occurrence. Tony and all of his genius ideas usually involved something blowing up and one of his robots repeatedly using a fire extinguisher on the crisped billionaire. Tony loved to play science with Banner, and that ended in a loud _kaboom_ nine times out of ten. When the explosive sounds from an experiment gone wrong were heard in the common room, Pepper turned a violent shade of red. "God damnit," she shouted. "I just had to convince the city not to evict him because all of his experimental testing. For the love of God, that man, he's going to be the death of me." Natasha offered a sympathetic smile from her over-sized armchair. Pepper continued to grumble but stayed seated. She planned to give Tony an earful later.

Natasha continued to focus on pages of her pregnancy book, occasionally grimacing at descriptions incorporated about giving birth and the fabulous nine months prior to the arrival of the baby. "I'm still pissed I can't drink vodka and I have to monitor my caffeine intake," she grumbled. Pepper smirked at her and sent her a disbelieving look. "Yeah, I know. I know. I don't know how I'm going to survive when I cut back on the caffeine."

"The guys are going to be at the receiving end of a lot of injuries," Pepper mused. When the floor shook again, the taller woman threw her book down on the couch. "For the love of God, again!"

"That one was different," she mused. "JARVIS," Natasha called, "was that a sonic arrow?" The AI confirmed affirmatively and that sent the assassin reeling towards the elevator. "Son of a bitch, I'll kill him."

"We are killing them, yes?" Pepper asked as she followed by the redheaded agent.

When the elevator doors slid open, Pepper took in the damage to the lab. The glass tables had shattered. A few of the cars in the adjacent garage sported cracks in the windshields and windows. The three men had on what looked to be large headphones. Tony rubbed the back of his head sheepishly as he turned slowly in a circle, surveying the damage. Banner focused on his heart monitor and trying to calm his pulse. Barton slipped the headphones off before sliding his hearing aids out and throwing them on the closest non-glass counter. By the time Pepper had looked at everything and mentally calculated the sum of money it would take to fix this particular level of the lab, Natasha was fuming. The agent had her hands posed on her hips as she fixed Barton with a withering glare.

"Oh look. Agent Mommy, did your pregnancy book teach you that? Because, darling, you've perfected the 'mom' stance," Stark teased. Banner elbowed him with a quick silencing look. "Did we interrupt girl time? Painting each others nails and naked pillow fights?" When neither woman immediately started yelling, Stark met each of their gazes worriedly. "JARVIS, what's today's date?"

"July 3, sir."

"Is there a certain symbol marked on the calendar for today's date," Stark asked nervously. When the AI responded affirmatively, the billionaire blanched. He swallowed deeply. "We'll clean it up right now, honey. We're sorry for the disruption. JARVIS, can you make two appointments at the spa? Have Happy drive the ladies. We'll have it all cleaned before you get back," he promised, trying to usher them back into the elevator. The genius had enough sense not to touch Natasha, but he placed a soothing hand on Pepper's back and guided her to the elevator.

"Fix it," she growled. "I just finished convincing the city council that you aren't an annoying asshole of a nuisance. Do you know how much effort went into those negotiations, Tony? Do you know? The city doesn't take too fondly to a lunatic consistently blowing things up with no concern for others!"

"Sonic arrows," Natasha snarled. "Ask that dumb shit how he lost his hearing in the first place." Stark looked panicked as he put two-and-two together. The agent still wore a deadly look on her face. Behind the genius, Barton's eyes widened as he paled slightly.

When the elevator doors closed whisking the women away to the lobby where a car waited to take them to a relaxing spa far away from Avengers Tower, Stark turned around. "It's Satan's trifecta!"

"What are you talking about," Banner asked, already locating a broom to start sweeping up shards of glass.

"Symbol on a calendar," Barton muttered to himself. "That symbol doesn't happen to be a small red circle, does it?" Stark nodded grimly. "Well fuck. Shouldn't you know not to blow shit up when your girlfriend is on her period?"

"Again, what is Satan's trifecta," Banner repeated.

"The women in the tower are all experiencing randomized hormonal shifts," Barton explained tactfully.

"Stop beating around the bush. This is hell. Pepper is on her period, and because of his stupid swimmers, Spidey is pregnant. In other words, all of us are dead."

"You know a trifecta is the combination of three things, yes? Last I checked there were two women in this house."

"You just wait. One of them will scream at you for doing something you didn't even realize you were doing. When you become a victim of one their hormonal time bombs, you will understand why one of them counts at least twice. I mean Romanov is pregnant. That counts double. Normal pregnant women are terribly unstable. Romanov… well, she's far from normal. She willingly married that idiot," Stark pointed at Barton as if that was explanation in and of itself.

"Hey, don't you have a lab to be fixing, asshat?" Barton retorted throwing him the phone to call the clean-up crew.

"Don't start with me. I'm about to be at the deadly end of your wife's thigh choke because you didn't tell me that sonic arrows are a no-no to play with!"

"Sonic arrows are always a no-no to play with," Banner interjected with a roll of his eyes. "Always, Stark. Always a no-no."

"I'm just saying, Hawk Boy could have given us a heads-up that Spidey would kill us if she knew we were playing with sonic arrow tips to add to his quiver."

"Yeah, don't tell her we're adding them to my quiver. She'll actually kill all of us."

"I doubt anyone would blame her," Banner commented thoughtfully.

•••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

When Pepper walked back into the tower, she was feeling much more relaxed. Her massage left her feeling quite happy. She wanted to hang on to that feeling of bliss as long as possible, so she avoided any of the lab floors like the plague. There was a vase of flowers sitting on the desk of her office with a box of chocolate. "There is always this benefit of Tony Stark keeping track of my cycle," she mused to herself as she snatched one from the box. She changed clothes before heading back down to the common area to finish her book.

"Hey Pepper," Barton greeted as she walked in. "Is Natasha back too?"

"She didn't stay at the spa. She went somewhere to blow off some steam. I'm assuming her version of blowing off steam includes guns and hand-to-hand combat, so I decided to stick with my spa appointments. She isn't exactly happy with you."

"She said that," he asked dumbfounded.

"Not in so many words. I don't have to tell you that she's a tightlipped person. Let me tell you a story, Clint. After we got Tony back, he worked on that suit constantly. He nearly blew himself up numerous times. That whole situation is part of the reason we have an on-call medical team. He couldn't understand why I was so upset. That suit reminded me of where he had been, what had happened to him, what he lost. For the three months he was held hostage, I cried for him. I wanted him back. That suit reminded me of the pain I felt for his loss. Now, a lot of good has come from that suit, it's not associated with so many bad memories, but still, there are days when he's down there blowing stuff up that I remember how close I came to losing him. Give her some time, and remember she can't kill you. She wants your child to have a father."

"Well fuck," he mumbled for the second time that day as Pepper took her tea and retreated to the couch to relocate her book.

•••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

When he walked into their suite hours later, he crawled onto the bed and promptly fell asleep sprawled across it. He completed his usual training routine and then some after he left Pepper in the common room. His muscles screamed at him unhappily. His body had been far past the point of "enjoying the burn" when he gave in and stumbled through the tower. When he felt her hands running through his hair, he caught her hand and pressed a sweet kiss to the inside of her wrist. "Tasha," he murmured sleepily.

"Come on. You need a shower. Then you can go back to bed and actually sleep in it like a normal person." He grumbled but shuffled gracelessly towards the bathroom. She flipped on the water as he stripped. The idea of a shower seemed better when it looked like he was getting to shower with her, but she ushered him inside and then walked back to the bedroom. His military training kicked in as four minutes later, despite sleep bleeding into the edges of consciousness, he finished toweling off. She tossed a pair of boxers at his head as he switched off the light. Haphazardly stepping into them and situating them on his hips, he fell back clumsily on the bed in a similar position to the one she had originally found him in. "You can't form your little nest of sheets and pillows if you're on top of the covers."

He grinned at her drowsily. "You're pretty."

"You can't cuddle if you're not under the covers, idiot." She explained though there was clearly a smile in her voice.

"I do not cuddle," he quickly objected.

"Oh really? So when you try and turn me into a giant teddy bear, what is it you're doing?"

"I'm," he paused as he tried to come up with something that sounded more manly than cuddling. "I'm protectively transferring bodily heat. I'm keeping you warm," he reasoned.

"Yes, because we're in such a danger of freezing to death here in our warm suite in Avengers Tower. Try again."

"I'm a man, Tasha. I do not cuddle."

"Is snuggle a more masculine verb then?"

"Shut up," he snorted as he wiggled himself around until he was under the covers. They both knew that no matter what word they called it, Barton would wake up with his body haphazardly across hers. They both knew the other felt comforted by the habit, even if neither would admit it. "Go to sleep, Tasha," he mumbled as he pulled her closer.

"Night, snuggle bunny." She mocked with a teasing smirk, as she situated her body against his.

"No," he declared vehemently as he draped his arm protectively over her stomach, closing all the gaps between their spooning bodies. "No. If I can't call you dumpling, you can't call me snuggle bunny."

"Ha," she laughed. "Go to sleep, Snuggle Bunny."

"Love you Dumpling," he whispered against her shoulder as he drifted off into sleep, barely feeling the elbow she sent flying into his stomach.

•••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

(8 and ½ months later)

"Are you out of your ever loving mind?"

"Why does the cradle need legs," he rebutted.

"Why does the cradle need legs," Natasha mocked. "The cradle needs legs because without legs, it's a hanging death trap. I'm not putting our baby in a bag that hangs from the ceiling!"

"It's like a hammock. It's not a bag!"

"If it looks like a duck and talks like a duck, it's a duck!" she retorted. "Build the damn cradle, Clint."

"Cradles don't talk! Your metaphor doesn't make sense," he yelled after her as the door to the nursery closed. "I'm going to pay for that one later," he grumbled to himself as he collapsed on the floor in a pile of loose screws and wood pieces.

When the door opened again, he almost ducked for cover thinking his pregnant wife was back to strangle him with the hammock he wanted to hang. "We are here to help you construct the nursery," Thor boomed happily.

"What he means is those of who can wield tools without destroying things are here to help you build the nursery," Captain clarified at Barton's skeptical look. Thor looked crestfallen. "Here, Thor. You can fold clothes. You can't break clothes. I take that back," he continued immediately. "If you try your hardest, you won't break the clothes. Banner will help you with the crib. I will do the changing table, and Stark will put together the rocking chair." The superhero called out the plays like they were at war.

Stark moaned. "Why can't I just buy all the furniture already put together? This is boring. I could be building the baby a miniature robot suit."

"What did we say about making a mini-Iron Man suit for the assassins' infant?" Banner prompted.

"That I'm not allowed to. You take the fun out of everything," Stark rebutted with a juvenile pout.

"Is your child meant to be this small," Thor questioned, holding up a onesie in a fist. "This tunic is smaller than my hand."

"Human children are typically small," Captain nodded with a smile.

"I was thinking of baby names," Stark interrupted. "Anthony if it's a boy and Antonia if it's a girl."

"For the last time, they are not naming their child after you. Right," Captain asked for confirmation hopefully.

"Trust me, Cap. I refuse to have a son named Tony."

"See, he didn't reject the female version! It's still on the table," Stark cheered excitedly.

"Build the damn rocking chair. Antonia is not on the table for a girl's name either," Barton silenced the eccentric older man.

"So what are you thinking for names? I mean the baby's right around the corner," Banner stated.

"We haven't really talked about it."

"She threatened me with a nipple. I thought it would be a great way to die until I figured out she wasn't talking about her nipples but nipples for the baby bottle," Stark grumbled.

"Touch my wife's nipples and you will become the latest target practice for my exploding arrow heads," Barton threatened.

"What did you do to make her threaten you with nipples," Banner asked curiously. "It's creative which means whatever you did must just be fodder for entertainment."

"Can we please stop saying the word nipple in passing conversation like it's normal," Captain pleaded, his face a brilliant red.

"What is a baby bottle nipple," Thor wondered aloud. "On Asgard, the women breastfeed their young. There are no bottles for the young. Nipples, yes, but no bottle nipples.

"I asked her if she was planning on breastfeeding. I suggested she could walk around topless if that would make her more comfortable. I really had her best interests at heart," Tony explained. "No, Captain, it's the 21st century. Nipples are part of everyday conversations. Vaginas are too."

"Stark, stop it. He's going to burst a blood vessel. We just got him to stop referring to sex as fondue. You're going to make him regress," Banner chided as if he was talking to a petulant child.

"We have vaginas and nipples on Asgard," Thor confirmed. Barton laughed aloud as Rogers face turned a more violent shade of red.

"New topic," Banner declared. "Anything else. Literally any other topic will suffice."

"Do you not like nipples," Stark asked. "You're a red-blooded male. You should have a healthy appreciation for a woman's figure."

"I'm with Banner. Any other topic imaginable will do," Captain practically begged from where he sat cowering behind the changing table box. "What else do you need to buy before the baby arrives?"

Barton decided to take pity on his overly embarrassed friend and pulled a crumpled list out of his pocket. He looked as if he was going to start reading it aloud, but tossed it towards the captain instead. "The better question is what don't I need to buy before the baby arrives."

"I have an idea," Stark proclaimed.

"No you don't. Sit down," Banner interrupted.

"It's a good idea," the genius defended.

"I highly doubt that," Captain countered.

"Have I told you every single one of you sucks?"

"Today? No. This week, about forty six times. Build the rocking chair," Banner instructed motioning with his screwdriver towards the still dismantled pieces of wood.

"My idea is good. Shut up and listen. Barton and I will go get everything on the list. We can leave the prudes to build the furniture." Stark finished explaining and looked smug. Captain raised his eyebrows in contemplation while sharing a look with Banner and Barton.

"What am I to do," Thor asked hopefully. "I can construct something," he insisted. "I will not break anything."

"There is a bookshelf and a toy chest that need to be put together," Barton mused. "Break them and Natasha will maim you." Thor clapped happily as he moved over to the two sealed boxes. "Let's go, Stark. I'm driving."

"It was my idea," Stark whined. "I get to drive," he declared petulantly.

"Stop bickering or one of your women will swoop in and hit you both," Banner reminded them with a teasing smirk as they left the room. "And now we can have an actual conversation and get these things built in a timely manner," he concluded happily.

"Thank goodness," Captain sighed in relief.

"I can make PopTarts," Thor exclaimed before running from the room to make snacks.

Banner couldn't help but laugh. Soon Captain had joined in on the laughter. "Oh my god, this child is going to grow up in a legitimate world of crazy."

"Just wait until Stark has one. Then it's just going to be worse. You know how Barton and Stark bicker. Imagine how it's going to be when it's their children bickering."

"I'm actually equal parts terrified and excited to see that."

"We've saved the world, and we're scared of the children to come," Captain mused humorously.

"And rightfully so. It's logical to be fearful when we know the parents as well as we do," Banner explained. "A few more weeks and we'll have a pint sized Black Widow wailing through the tower." He paused for a second. "Remind me to ask Stark about getting the sound proofing updated."


	5. Chapter 5

Author's Note: I could really use some ideas for the following chapters! Please drop a line and let me know what you would like to see in this store (or any other).

Disclaimer: I still own nothing. I'm just playing around with Marvel's characters for a while. No infringement intended.

"Oh my god," Stark bumbled. "Oh my god," he repeated, dropping his head to his hands. "Oh my god."

"Find a different phrase," Pepper encouraged.

"Use that big genius brain of yours and come up with something besides 'oh my god,'" Natasha mocked.

"That is going to come out of you," Steve shrieked.

"I'm scarred for life," Stark continued to whine. "Why? Why would you make me watch a video about giving birth? What did I ever do to you?"

"Would you like the consolidated summary or the itemized list?" Natasha rebutted easily, her arms crossed over her chest and rested on her obviously pregnant stomach.

"I never… But… I… I hate you," Stark conceded.

"Trust me. The feeling is mutual," the redheaded agent smirked. "Now, would you like to revisit the topic of painkillers during labor?"

"No," both men amended, violently shaking their hands.

"Good boys. And why do you not get a say in my medication preferences concerning the birth of my child?" Natasha prompted as Pepper snickered, clearly enjoying the situation.

"No uterus, no opinion." Stark repeated the phrase the agent had screamed at him the night before. Steve blushed furiously at the mention of Natasha's uterus.

"I'm never going to have sex," Steve muttered. "It's not worth it." Pepper couldn't help but laugh. She quickly covered her mouth and pretended she was coughing. "That looks so painful."

"And that is why I will be having a fantastic amount of painkillers," Natasha interjected.

"I can't get those images out of my mind. They're there every time I blink. Pepper, make it stop," Stark groaned, dropping his head onto her shoulder dramatically. "You, madam, are the very definition of evil," he directed towards Natasha.

"Why thank you. That's the nicest thing you have ever said to me," she responded as she laid on the charm, drawing on a heavy Southern belle accent she learned out of necessity for an undercover mission years back. "You ready to go, Pepper?"

"Go? You're taking her? You can't have her. She's mine. Mine," Stark repeated. "She has to nurse me back to health after your mental and emotional trauma."

"Would you like to come with us? We're going to buy more things for the baby," Pepper informed him.

"But," he stuttered. "Barton and I bought the whole damn Babies 'R Us store a week ago. What else could we possibly need?"

"We don't need anything. We," Pepper stressed, "are not having a baby. Yet," she amended. Tony blanched and quickly shut up.

"Have fun, dear," he muttered as he kissed her offered cheek.

•••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

"So which do you think it is?" Pepper asked as she pushed a cart through aisles of Babies 'R Us. The two women spent the first forty minutes of their shopping trip returning many of the items purchased previously by their significant others. She met Natasha's questioning eyebrow and clarified. "Do you think you're having a boy or a girl?"

"I honestly don't have a clue."

"Do you prefer one or the other? Does Clint?"

"I am going to be hopelessly overwhelmed whether this is a boy or a girl. Clint is excited regardless. The man cannot contain his joy."

"Oh, yes. The whole tower has heard him singing," Pepper laughed. "He's got a good voice. He might need to learn some more kid-friendly songs though. 90s Nelly doesn't scream lullabies, though some of the 60s classic stuff he sings could work."

Natasha laughed at Pepper's analysis. "The man only has one volume when he sings."

"It seems like he only has one volume for most things. They're putting new sound proofing in your apartment by the way. Something about a new crying baby, Clint's penchant for karaoke, and generally loud assassin sex."

"Probably a good thing," she agreed. Natasha tried to look embarrassed, but she ended up smirking knowingly. "What do you think about this stroller?"

"It's better than the one the boys picked out."

"The one they picked out looked like a death contraption. It looks like this one can be a stroller, car seat, and a bassinet."

"Oh," Pepper exclaimed. "That stroller matches the colors for the nursery!"

"Turquoise or gray," Natasha asked from further down the aisle where she was looking at other types of carriers.

"Gray, and it looks like they have a turquoise lining for it as well."

Their shopping trip continued in much the same fashion. A good two hours later, Happy helped them unload all of the bags from the car. Natasha dropped all the bags haphazardly on the floor of the nursery before she shuffled back to the couch, where she collapsed into the oversized cushions gratefully.

"Hey babe," Clint called from the office.

"Just because I can't see my thighs with our child in the way doesn't mean I won't strangle you with them, Barton."

"I was just trying it on for size," he explained kindly with a wide smile as he came into the living room.

"Well, if it didn't fit before pregnancy, it sure as hell isn't going to fit now when I have 35 extra pounds of lovely weight attached to my midsection. How was your day?"

"I worked on a consult for a something or other in some country."

"I hope your report was more specific than something in some place," she teased. "You get it finished?"

"Almost. I've got to finish the thing for the other one. I have a greater appreciation for all the paperwork Coulson was always bitching about."

"You and me both. I was thinking," she paused. "If we have a boy, what about Phillip?"

Clint looked taken aback. He swallowed deeply before leaning forward to cradle her face in his hands. "Yeah?"

"Yeah," she encouraged. "What do you think?"

"I think it's perfect, Tasha. Thank you."

She flashed him a rare smile before kissing him. "He gave you a second chance. You gave me a second chance. Time to pay it forward." She kissed him again. "Now, go finish the thing about the something that it's in some country that you obviously aren't paying any attention to, so Fury isn't calling us at the ass crack of dawn."

"You, Natasha Romanov, terrified the old man the last time he called at the ass crack of dawn. I think he might have reconsidered those diapers he refuses to let the junior agents wear. You may have scared him just enough to make him piss himself, and you have no idea how much I would have given to have seen the look on his face."

"In my defense, he shouldn't be calling a heavily pregnant woman before 9 AM. Before 6 AM is just a recipe for disaster. Thus, it is his own fault that he was at the receiving end of my wrath. If I had been within range, it's likely he would need two eye patches instead of one."

"Performing thigh chokes while pregnant is an action that is frowned upon according to your doctor."

"When was the last time you saw me take out an enemy's eye with a thigh choke?"

"Throughout our partnership, Tasha, I've learned never to underestimate your ability to maim the other side." She laughed before she nudged him off the couch and pointed to the office.

•••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

When the phone in their apartment rang loudly, Natasha let out a very long string of colorful cusswords as Clint burrowed under his nest of pillows.

"What the fuck do you want?"

"Agent Romanoff," Fury started. "Good morning."

"What the fuck do you want," she repeated. "Do you know what time it is? Is the clock on the side of your body that you can't see, Director? Why do you always insist on calling me at the ass crack of fucking dawn? Do you know I'm pregnant? Do you know how little sleep I get already? Do you know how difficult it is to ever get comfortable with the equivalent of a fucking pumpkin strapped to your stomach? Do you know how remarkably irritating it is to have to listen to your voice of all voices at 4:27 AM?"

"Tasha, give me the phone before he puts you on eternal maternity leave and you never get to go on a mission again," he grumbled, his voice muted somewhat by the pillow still covering his face. Taking a chance with his hand, he grabbed the phone from his ranting, angry wife. "Morning, Director. What can I do for you?"

"I have an urgent assignment for you that requires your long distance marksmanship."

"Duration?"

"Mission brief says three days. Base in an hour," Fury instructed before hanging up.

"Duty calls. I'll be back. I love you, Tash." He crawled gracelessly out of his makeshift nest and kissed the red head before slipping from the bed.

"Love you too," she mumbled as she rearranged herself in his nest. She would never verbally admit it to anyone ever, but she felt comfortable and safe surrounded by the odd jumble of pillows, blankets, and sheets. She inhaled deeply, breathing in his scent. She was asleep before he left, giving her a quick kiss on her forehead before fumbling through the dark apartment to his car.

•••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

"Surveillance, termination, and get out," Barton repeated as Hill gave him a hearty slap on the back as she ushered him onto the Quinjet.

"Seriously, though. Get in and get out; no ridiculous complications that you two are so found of. That includes no hostage situations; no explosions of any sort, no all-out firefights, no zip lining off buildings. No crazy shit, Barton. In and out. If you miss Romanov's due date, she will butcher every single one of us. I'm too young to die," she joked.

"Trust me. If I miss her due date, she'll be so busy killing me and reincarnating me in a fatal cycle that she won't have time to come after you." With a quick salute, he was off.

•••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

"Is it possible to crave vodka," Natasha groaned.

"Yes, it's called alcoholism," Banner teased softly as he stirred whatever was in the skillet.

"Ha," she retorted, though he could see a smile teasing at her lips. "Aren't you sassy today?"

"I'm sassy everyday, but usually Stark absorbs all the sassy and sarcastic in the room and exudes it as ego."

"Trouble in science paradise?" She asked, gentle concern coating her voice, as she drank her tea.

"He blew up the baby gift I was building with a new prototype laser attachment for his suit." If the doctor didn't seem so sad, she might have laughed at the seemingly adorable pout that had never adorned his face before.

"You were making a baby gift?"

He nodded sullenly while scooping some of the eggs out of the pan and onto two waiting plates. "Until Stark blew it up; the jackass," he muttered.

"What was it?"

"It was a baby monitor system that could be connected to the private comm links you both wear during missions. It was completely safe. I installed a cloaking device in the motherboard, so you could also have visual of the baby when you are away. You wouldn't have to worry about an enemy hacking into or distorting the feed. It could be used here in the tower and away on missions." He sounded so proud of himself, and it really was the perfect gift.

"Damn these hormones," she cursed when her eyes started to water. "It sounds perfect, Bruce. It's the thought that counts. You really didn't need to get us a gift, much less build such a system. I can't even imagine how much time you must have spent learning about coding, hacking, and video surveillance. This kid is lucky to have an uncle like you."

"To have an uncle like the Other Guy is probably more dangerous than you would like around your newborn."

"Bruce, hey," she stood up from her chair at the counter and crossed to stand in front of the doctor. He was arguably one of the sanest people on their team, and in the years since the Chitauri invasion, they had bonded over sleepless nights and late-night tea. Usually, they sat in silence, both reading their latest books or articles while slowly drinking tea. Occasionally, they spoke softly about different things. She had learned over the course of these nighttime run-ins that he often needed reassurance in regards to matters concerning Hulk. "I have no doubt that the baby will be safe around you. I have no doubt that the baby will be safe around the Other Guy if he makes an appearance. The Other Guy has saved my ass more than a few times. While he is a bit on the larger side and I doubt I would ask him to babysit, he wouldn't hurt the baby. Other Guy or not, you're still this child's uncle. We were all used to being alone. All of us are remarkably damaged. Together, we're a little less broken. It's a change from solitude, but we're a family, a crazy ragtag group of people, yes, but a family nevertheless." She offered him a rare smile before turning back to the counter.

"Also, if you ever tell anyone about this softer side my lovely pregnancy hormones seem to bring out, I will find a way to make you suffer, a very creative way," she threatened as she picked up her tea nonchalantly.

"And there's the Widow we all know and love," he laughed. "Thanks though. I appreciate it," Banner mumbled under his breath slightly. "When does Barton get back?"

"Three days, I think."

"In case you were wondering, I'm going to be steering clear of you after the 12 hour mark." He answered her questioning look with an answer. "Now, please don't throw anything at me, but you get visibly snippy and crabby when Barton's gone for longer than a day."

"I figure if I get to be pregnant for nine months and then go through what people describe as 24 hours of painstaking torture… I mean labor, simple slip of the tongue. He can at least be here to bear witness to my discomfort or directly suffer for my discomfort."

"I'm sure that's the only reason. It has nothing to do with the fact that you love him."

"Shut up," she commanded, though there was gentleness to her voice that would not have been present if someone else had been the one to say it.

"Regardless, I'll be in hiding. Here, have some eggs."

•••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

True to his word, Banner hid in the lab. That was fairly normal though. The man loved the lab. Tony, still scarred from his forced viewing of a labor video, managed to steer clear of Natasha as well for the most part. Pepper was in China doing a press conference for Stark Industries latest gizmo or gadget, and Steve had taken a weekend trip to some old hotel in Brooklyn he used to know. So it seemed as if Natasha had the tower to herself for however short a period, and she absolutely basked in the silence. She took her tea out on the deck and watched the city. February in New York was cold, not dead-of-winter-Russia-cold, but cold enough to remind her of her original country. She rubbed her belly and spoke to it softly.

"One day, your daddy and I will take you to Russia. We'll see a ballet, even if it drives your father nuts." The baby kicked in response and she smiled. "I know," she continued. "Isn't it funny to see Daddy go a little bit crazy?"

When her face started to grow numb and her tea long since gone, she lifted herself slowly out of the deck chairs and back into the warmth of the communal floor. Steve leaned against the counters waiting for the coffee pot to give him his beverage.

"You're back early."

"The hotel's heater broke, and it's just too cold."

"This is nothing compared to Russia."

"I seem to recall. Eastern Europe in the winter… May as well be the ice caps. More tea?"

"Yes, please." She offered him her empty mug and leaned against the opposite counter.

"Where's Barton?"

"Fury sent him on mission."

"That explains why Banner and Stark have disappeared," he mused quietly. He turned to prepare his coffee and steep her tea. When he turned back there was water on the floor. "Hmm, one of the machines must have leaked. Why don't you sit down? I'll clean it up."

"Steve, I'm going to go out on a limb and say it wasn't a machine that leaked," Natasha said, her hands resting on her stomach.

He gave her a confused look. She watched the realization hit him, and she almost laughed. Almost. His eyes switched rapidly between staring at her like a gaping fish and staring at the puddle on the floor in embarrassed horror. "Oh. Oh," he said more quickly. "Oh! The baby… Oh my goodness. Okay. Sit. And… Oh…. Um… Breathe? Yes," he amended. "Breathe."

"We need to go to the hospital. I'm having a baby," she spoke slowly.

"Baby. Okay. Oh… Um… STARK," he bellowed at the top of his lungs. "STARK!" He frantically rushed around the kitchen, putting their mugs in the sink. "JARVIS, the plan… Code Widow… A," he asked mid-shout. "No, that's not it. THE BABY IS COMING, JARVIS. FIX IT!"

"Captain, breathe," Natasha coached from her spot on the closest chair. "The AI cannot fix this. JARVIS, please tell Banner and Stark that we need to visit the hospital as I've gone into labor."

"How are you calm? You're having a child. Did you not see the video," Rogers shrieked as he continued to flitter around her like an overly cautious and extremely confused protective. "STARK," he shouted again.

When Banner came rushing into the kitchen, Natasha could have hugged the man. "JARVIS, contact SHIELD to notify Barton of the situation and tell Pepper. Make sure Tony gets the car with the hospital bags and newborn carrier. Captain, get it together. If you can save the world from a psychotic god and his army of alien mutant warriors, you can help your friend get to the hospital. Got it? You ready, Natasha?" She nodded and let him help her out of the chair. "Okay, let's go. Avengers Tower is about to have a new resident."

•••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

48 hours into what was supposed to be a three-day mission, Barton sat freezing his ass off on the roof of some abandoned building watching his mark drink himself into oblivion.

"God this guy is a wuss," he said to himself. "Rogers could drink this dick under the table, and Rogers drinks juice instead of alcohol."

When a dark van pulled to a halt in front of the opposite building, Barton could have jumped for joy. "It's about damn time," he snarked at the balding man getting out of the car despite the fact that the man was entirely unaware of the archer's presence. "Do you know how goddamn cold it is right now?" He switched his comm link off mute and said, "Targets on site." When the mark and the balding man were face-to-face in what Barton assumed to be a traditional greeting, he spoke again. "Marks acquired." One deep breath, and an arrow punctured the mark mere moments before an arrow punctured the balding man. "Marks terminated. Send in the maids. Extraction requested."

"Get your ass on the jet," Fury ordered over the comm set. "Your wife is in labor." For the first time since he was 10, Barton fumbled with his arrow.

•••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

"For the love of God, if you hand me another cup of ice chips, I will force them down your throat. It will not be at all comfortable. Do you understand? Should I try telling you 'no more ice chips' in another language? Would that help you understand? I am having a goddamn child. I will be pushing a pot roast sized human out of a very small hole. Is there a logical scenario in which ice chips help me birth a child? Either give me something useful or get the fuck out," Natasha berated from her hospital bed.

To say she was unhappy would be the understatement of the year. She had been in labor for 7 hours, and there was no sign of Clint. Only that he was on a plane and would be there soon. She wanted to kill Fury for sending the archer on the mission in the first place. So what if the baby was coming early? Fury always harped about how he is the director of the world's greatest intelligence agency. He should have known the baby would come early. He should have known that the child of Natasha Romanov and Clint Barton would make sure nothing happened by the books. He should have known that the child would have a mind of its own.

"Did you not see the other nurse flee from the room holding an unwanted bucket of ice chips? You, male nurse with a penis, yes… you. Why are you holding ice chips? It's not a hot summers day. I'm not looking to cool a beverage. I'm having a child. You look like you're about 10, so it's possible you don't know what that entails. Let me lay it out for you. I'm in fucking pain, and giving me ice chips is going to make me throttle you."

Banner was the only one allowed in the room until Clint showed up. Stark was banned because well Stark's an idiot and tends to say the wrong things consistently because his verbal filter is faulty. Rogers was banned for continuing to shriek like a little girl who has seen a spider. One look at Natasha, red faced, sweaty, and cussing, and Rogers was more than happy to evacuate the hospital room in favor of the waiting room. Stark had JARVIS running extensive background checks on every hospital employee within a mile radius of Natasha and his unborn niece or nephew. The eccentric billionaire went so far as to demand to see the MCAT scores of a doctor that looked to be young enough to still own a Fisher-Price plastic stethoscope.

"Switch to Russian, Natasha," Banner suggested. She glared at him, but there was no threat behind her eyes, unlike the glares she fixed on the nurses who insisted on bringing more and more ice chips. "You can be more creative with your cussing in your native tongue," he explained.

10 hours in and Natasha was fed up. She wanted Clint and then she wanted the baby out. She demanded that it happen in that order and that it happen right that instant.

At 15 hours, she was finally dilated enough to have an epidural. The doctor who administered the epidural was forced to show his diploma, ID, hospital badge, and resume to Stark before being allowed to enter the agent's room with any form of medication.

When Clint stumbled out of the elevator panting like he had just run a marathon, Stark clasped his shoulder in congratulations and pointed him towards Natasha's room with a quietly muttered "Thank God."

"Tasha," he called when he walked through the door. He stroked her hair, kissed her forehead, and interlaced their fingers. "Hey."

"Did you tell Fury I hate him?"

"Fury knows you hate him, darling. But I'll be sure to explicitly remind him the next time I see him," he amended quickly. "How are you doing?"

"I'm in labor."

"She's made three nurse attendants cry," Banner interjected. "Good luck," he said. "We'll all be in the waiting room if you need anything." He excused himself leaving the couple alone.

"They kept bringing me ice chips," she said in way of an explanation.

"What good are those to a pregnant woman?"

"I knew I loved you for a reason. Mission a success?" Her eyes raked over his face and body, looking for any new injuries.

"Yes ma'am. Can I get you anything?"

"Just stay. God, I'm glad you're here," she said kissing him again. "I thought you might not make it in time." When her eyes sparkled with welling tears, she practically growled. "I really hate these hormones. I no longer have control over my tear ducts. A decade ago, I would have sworn I didn't have tear ducts, and now, I can't get them to stop watering pathetically."

"Hey, you're not pathetic," he chastised softly. "You're beautiful and strong. You're having a baby, our baby. You're allowed a few tears, Tasha. God, I love you so much."

"No, no. There's more than enough sappy, pathetic, emotions in this room without you falling into the trap."

"Hmm. I'll do my best to keep the sentimentalities inside, but I make no promises." He smiled widely at her, and she knew he wasn't planning on even trying to keep them contained.

"You have to remember to look at the footage from Rogers realizing I was going into labor. If I hadn't been leaking water all over the kitchen floor, I would have been laughing at his expression. It was priceless. He told JARVIS to fix it."

"The man can survive 70 years as a star spangled Popsicle, but show him a woman in labor and he's down for the count. Good to know… I'll have to remember that. Maybe if I bring it up while sparring, I'll actually win against him."

"Don't get your hopes up," she laughed.

"You really are beautiful, Tasha."

"Stop it. I'm bright red, sweating in places I didn't know I could sweat, and I'm swollen and large. You are not allowed to call me beautiful if I can't look down and see the tips of toes."

"I don't care. I think you're beautiful."

"I think you're full of it." There was a gentleness that coated her words.

"Full of undeniable amazing personality? Yes. It is hard to be this awesome."

"I was going to say full of shit," she countered simply.

"Love you too, Tasha."

"For the love of God, if you, cowering individual, are bringing more ice chips into this room, I will begin listing very creative ways to flay you like a damn fish fillet with my IV tube. Would you like to hear all the ways I can kill you with the medical equipment at hand? I may be in labor, but that does not mean you are safe from bodily harm," she cursed and shouted at the unsuspecting nurse in the doorway.

"And the tally of crying nurses gets bumped up to four."


	6. Chapter 6

Author's Note: Thanks for all the ideas! I'm going to try and incorporate as many as I can without making the chapter too ridiculous. As always, I would love to hear what you guys have to say. This chapter kind of turned into a series of scenes as Philip gets older (to an age that's more fun to write about). If it's confusing or doesn't work, please let me know.

Disclaimer: I still own nothing. I'm just playing around with Marvel's characters for a while. No infringement intended.

Natasha could hear Pepper squealing all the way from the elevator. Stark opened the door and ushered his girlfriend into the hospital room where the team huddled around Natasha and the new baby.

"I can't believe this came out of you," Steve breathed in awe, holding the swaddled infant in his arms. "I don't want to think about how this came out of you," he amended.

"My turn; give the billionaire genius the baby," Stark practically demanded with a smug smile on his face.

"Do you know how to hold a newborn," Banner asked cautiously. "It's not a football that you hike down field. It's a small baby, who, for future reference, is very easily damaged by things like explosive mishaps in the lab."

"You're never going to let it go, are you? I'm sorry I blew up your toy. Now, give me the baby," Stark instructed patronizingly, stretching his hands out to snatch the child from Steve's arms.

Clint perched on the edge of Natasha's hospital bed, holding her hand. He leaned over to whisper something in her ear before he placed a sweet kiss to the side of her head. The woman looked exhausted. Pepper fretted over to her friend's bedside.

"Congratulations, Mom. How are you feeling?"

"I can't come up with an adjective that accurately describes this. Clint, make up a word," Natasha asked. "It's good to see you though. I'm glad you're here," she said genuinely. "I've also given up trying to control my emotions for the next few weeks. The hormones are wrecking havoc on my body, and I simply do not have the energy to maintain my usual façade," the redhead informed her friend.

"You just had a baby, Natasha. You're allowed to have emotions! I'm surprised Clint over here isn't singing away."

"I may have squeezed his hand a little too tightly during labor. The doctor who looks to be only a few days older than my child said Clint's hand isn't broken. He also switched himself into sniper mode, it seems, so he can catch our son at the last minute when one of them drops him."

"You have a boy," Pepper squealed excitedly. "A baby boy! That's so great! What's his name?"

"Yeah, what is his name? It's Tony, isn't it? I'm the child's namesake. It's so touching," Stark rambled as he looked down tenderly at the small baby in his arms. Pepper made a move to smack him on the back of the head, but he sidestepped and continued by saying. "Ah, ah, ah. You cannot hit me when I hold the baby. Oh god, he's like a new shield. He's perfect Pepper protection."

"You did not just refer to my son as a shield," Barton exclaimed. "He's not even a day old yet. Your turn is over. Give me my kid."

"He's more of a Pepper shield," Stark amended.

"Give me my son," Barton repeated, getting off the bed to forcibly take the young boy away from Stark. "Banner, want to hold him?" The doctor nodded vigorously before carefully receiving the infant.

"So what's his name?"

"Philip Aiden Barton," Natasha replied, exhaustion and love lacing her voice.

"You sound happy," Pepper whispered into her ear. "You sound really happy."

"I am. I have a son," she confirmed. The way she said it sounded like she almost couldn't believe that the boy was hers.

The team continued to pass the baby in circles; constantly bickering over whose turn it was next while simultaneously mocking one another. When Banner noticed Natasha was starting to nod off, he motioned his head towards the waiting room. Pepper passed the baby to Clint before ushering the men out of the room. The door closed leaving the family of three alone.

"Hey Philip," Clint cooed at the young boy swaddled in his arms. A wide grin broke out across his face as he whispered those words. "I can't believe it, Tasha. He's ours. We made him. He's perfect." Clint kissed the baby's head gently. "We have a son."

"Yeah, we do. He has your mouth," Natasha happily smiled. "Coulson would be proud of us."

"Coulson would be proud you didn't actually maim one of the unsuspecting nurses," Clint countered. "You know Philip, your namesake, he was a great man. He would have loved to meet you."

"He would have loved to see you terrorize Avengers Tower and the helicarrier," Natasha laughed as she smoothed a finger over Philip's chubby cheek. "His skin is so soft," she mused. "Hi there," she murmured when the baby opened his eyes to look at her. "Hi." She relaxed her hands to her lap and simply watched her husband interact with their son. He was a natural. He looked so happy, and she couldn't believe that this was her reality. She couldn't believe she had been granted this chance at happiness.

When Philip started to cry, Clint tried to calm him, but ultimately ended up passing the young boy to Natasha. She held him like the nice elderly nurse, who shared her opinion on the uselessness of ice chips, taught her. Philip's little head rested on her chest, just above her heart. His body curled contentedly into her. She soothed a hand over his back in calming circles, and soon, his tears had all subsided. Clint pulled out his phone to take a picture, immediately setting it to be his background.

"You better not have any photos of me actually in labor on that phone, Clint," she threatened.  
"No one in the world ever needs to see that. Can you just imagine? Rogers would faint."

"I still want to see the security feed of him panicking when your water broke in the kitchen. I might need to have JARVIS burn me a DVD of that."

"Don't ever let Rogers see it, or we'll never hear the end of the apologies. You can take the man out of the 1940s, but you can't take the 1940s out of the man."

"That's my line," Clint pouted good-naturedly. "You stole my saying."

"I just birthed your child. I'm sure you can spare one of your snarky lines," she rebutted easily. Her eyelids fluttered as she fought back a yawn. She looked down and smiled fondly at the little boy resting on her chest. "He looks like you. He is absolutely perfect." She yawned again, muffling some of the compliment.

Clint brushed her hair back away from her face, tucking a few stray locks behind her ear. He kissed her forehead before suggesting she sleep. The agent nodded and carefully handed Philip back to his father. As Clint was about to go sit in one of the chairs, she stopped him before motioning to the bed. She scooted over as far as she could before he carefully adjusted himself next to her, Philip resting with his back against the man's bent knees. Natasha tipped her head to use Clint's shoulder as a pillow and the archer's singing lulled her to sleep.

•••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

"Our baby hates sleep," Clint grumbled. "Why. Why Philip? It's so easy. I could do it right now and sleep until you graduate college."

"If you go all Rip Van Winkle on me and leave me alone, I will kill you," Natasha threatened. "You've got a mission briefing tomorrow. You need your sleep. I'll take him."

"Thank you," he murmured, handing over Philip. He kissed the little boy's head and whispered, "Please be good for Mommy."

"If only it were that easy." She carried the boy back into his room and swaddled him again in a gray blanket with his initials. She spoke softly to him in Russian as she danced in slow circles around the room. It took nearly an hour, but finally, he slumbered contentedly in her arms. "I've got to remember that trick," she whispered to herself. "Let's get you into bed, so Mommy can get at least a few hours of sleep before you try to wail through the soundproofing in the apartment. Доброй ночи, моя влюбленность. Я тебя люблю." "Goodnight, my love. I love you," she translated for him.

She tumbled tiredly into the bed after double-checking the baby monitor.

Four hours later, Philip cried loudly.

"I got him," Clint volunteered.

"I don't think you've got the parts he wants, but by all means, try to breastfeed. We can put it in the baby book," she retorted, still half asleep. "Go back to bed, Clint." He didn't argue, just mumbled something unintelligible and curled back into his nest.

Philip ate fairly easily and was soon asleep in her arms yet again.

Three hours later, when Tony knocked loudly on the door, causing Philip to wake up in tears, Natasha cursed at him in every language she knew. She lifted him out of his bassinet to try and comfort him before stomping loudly to the door.

"What," she snarled at him.

"Oy. Can I make you coffee," he asked kindly, trying to slip back into her good graces.

"No. You woke him up. You can calm him down. Here," Natasha demanded, handing Stark the baby.

"Hey, little man. What's cracking? You're not a morning person. I get that. You're mother isn't a morning person either. Did you know one time I tried to talk to her before she had her coffee and she threw a fork at me?"

"I only did that once," she asked with a smirk. "I could have sworn I've threatened you with bodily harm at least six times a day since I moved in. Even before that, I'm sure Natalie Rushman threatened you somehow."

"Like I was saying before I was so rudely interrupted," Stark continued talking to Philip. "Your mommy isn't a morning person. I'm not sure your daddy sleeps at all. Good luck when you're a teenager trying to sneak in and out. If, by the grace of God, you manage to slip out of the apartment of two secret agents, JARVIS will catch you. Having four superheroes as uncles is both a fantastically awesome blessing and a sad depressing curse. Embrace the crazy, kid. That's lesson number one."

"I should say something about that, but the sound of your voice seems to lull him to sleep like it does everyone else when you get going on one of your narcissistic monologues."

"Hey now. I take offense at that!" He pretended to be wounded, dramatically gaping at her.

"That's the point, Stark. What did you want at 7:23 in the morning?"

"I want to come with you to Philip's check up."

"Why?"

"I'm Tony Stark. It can't hurt to have me there. Maybe you don't have to wait as long in the waiting room, or maybe they don't send the intern to give him his round of shots."

"Your nephew is making you soft, you old man."

Tony looked down at the boy in his arms. "Maybe, but he's my nephew. I'm allowed. So can I come?"

"By all means, come and 'secretly' run background checks on everyone in the office. Can you watch him? I need to get dressed." He nodded and settled into the couch. "Oh," she called from the hallway. "Don't do anything stupid."

"I don't know why people keep telling me that," Stark mused to the boy, who was looking up at him with large blue eyes. "I'm a genius. Don't they know it's impossible for me to do anything that can be defined as stupid?" He looked around the room, making sure no one was there. "You know, little man, you're going to have a cousin soon. Would you like that?" He could have sworn the baby smiled at him, even though logically he knew it wasn't possible just yet. "Oh!" He exclaimed. "Look," Stark said, shifting to pull something out of his back pocket. He held up the bib that read, "These fools put my cape on backwards."

"You look mighty handsome, kid," Stark complimented after he fitted the bib around the boy's neck. "Mighty handsome indeed, though I think you would look even better in a baby Iron Man suit. Can't you just see the possibilities?"

"Make my child a suit of any kind and you will learn just how fatal my trademark thigh choke is," Natasha called as she ambled back down the hallway, cup of coffee in her hands. She let out a rare laugh when she saw the bib and quirked an eyebrow at Tony.

"What? I spoil all of you. You are all living here rent-free. Why shouldn't he get the same perks?"

She rolled her eyes at him before lifting Philip from his lap. "Let's get you away from your crazy uncle. Appointment is at 9. Be ready at 8:30," she called over her shoulder while making her way to the nursery.

"Ma'am, yes ma'am," he mock saluted as he left.

•••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

"Need a sparring partner, Cap?" Natasha stretched slowly as she looked at him. He had been training for at least two hours by the looks of it, but thanks to the super serum, the man could train for hours and not feel sore. There were days she really hated that.

"You sure," he hesitated. "You um… just had a baby." He stuttered over his words and opted instead for a drink of water. Natasha simply raised her eyebrow and fixed him with a look that almost dared him to continue with his train of thought. When he didn't she sighed.

"Philip's almost four months old. I've been sparring with Clint for the last month and a half. I could use the challenge."

"Yeah, okay," he agreed somewhat reluctantly. He made his way to the mat and watched her carefully. In his mind he was already on the defensive. When the two first started sparring together, it had taken him at least six months to actually fight her. Part of his 1940s attitude, he felt awful hitting a lady, even if the lady was asking for it literally. Two minutes into the fight and he hadn't thrown a single punch, merely deflecting and retreating. She threw a combo that knocked him off guard and one of her roundhouse kicks caught him square in the shoulder and sent him falling to the side.

"Stop holding back," she yelled, each word emphasized with a swinging blow to his head. He made a grunting noise as two of the punches connected with the side of his face. "Come on," she demanded.

He let out a deep, controlled breath before steeling his nerves and putting himself back in the fight. He landed a punch to her stomach before she countered with an acrobatic move that had him flat on his back. "Mercy," he said, lifting himself slowly off the floor.

"Mercy, really? You could have easily deflected that or fought back." He disappointed her. He knew her well enough to know that, but she didn't let it show in her tone, which was neutral besides the hint of disbelief. "I'll let you get back to your workout then. I'll work on the bars." Rogers dropped his head slightly before returning to his line up of punching bags. He watched out of the corner of his eye as she jumped gracefully onto the taller of the two uneven bars. She worked through a gymnastic routine her body memorized years ago. With each satisfying thwack of her hands making contact with the bar, she felt herself relax more and more. As Rogers destroyed his first punching bag, Natasha dismounted perfectly, sticking the landing. Afterwards, she moved a Pilates mat to the corner directly in the sunlight to begin another routine.

When she finally finished her training session, she was dripping in sweat and breathing heavily. Between breastfeeding and her workouts, she was almost down to her starting weight. While she loved Philip, she wasn't too fond of the extra pounds she gained during pregnancy. She was eager to be rid of it.

Natasha rode the elevator up to the communal floor where she saw Philip propped up in his Bumbo chair, watching Banner with rapt attention. She leaned against the archway for a moment and watched the doctor interact with her son. The usually dignified man continued making silly faces at the young boy, reaching over to tickle him when he was graced with a toothless grin. When the baby saw his mother standing off to the side, he gurgled happily and reached his chubby arms out to her.

"Is that your mommy," Banner asked. "Here we go," he lifted him from the chair and blew a raspberry kiss to his stomach, causing the little boy to laugh.

"You're really good with him," Natasha remarked as she lifted her son to her hip.

"He's fun. How was your session?"

"Good. Thanks for watching him."

"My pleasure. When's Barton back?"

"A couple of days, I think. When he gets back, I'm scheduled for my first mission."

"I'm sure you'll be able to handle it," Banner reassured; though he knew she didn't need the encouragement. "Let's face it. The whole spy thing you've got down pat, and you're damn good at the maternal thing." He nodded his head toward the baby in her arms who was smiling happily and gripping her hair in a tiny fist.

"You don't think I'm crazy to go back on a mission?"

"I know, Natasha. I would think you were crazy if you didn't. Having a baby doesn't mean you lose your career. It just means you have a few more things to juggle. If you weren't good before, I would say you're going to be invincible now, if only because you want to make it home to him. His presence in the world just might make you a better spy. More human, yes, but I'm sure you'll find a way to work that into a strength. It'll probably make your undercover personas that much more believable."

"Thanks," she said sincerely. "Come on, младенец. Can you say bye to Uncle Bruce?" Natasha lifted his chubby little arm and waved before offering a smile and returning to their floor.

"Maybe your daddy will be home soon," she whispered into the boy's ear as she nuzzled his cheek with her nose. "I know you miss Daddy's singing." He captured her face between his small hands. She made a face and Philip laughed gleefully. "Daddy loves you, little one. I love you too." She lifted him over her head and blew a kiss on his stomach, making him giggle again.

•••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

Her first mission was more of a test than anything. She fought the urge to roll her eyes at the ease of it when Hill handed over the mission brief. She raised an eyebrow at her handler. Her look clearly asking why her particular skill set was necessary for such an elementary mission. Hill shrugged and offered no further explanation.

When she was alone in her room on base, she reviewed the brief again, spending time memorizing the details of each aspect. She allowed herself a chuckle when reading the allotted time for the mission. 48 hours, the line declared in the large, bold print. Natasha decided to place a bet with herself. 12 hours from drop off to extraction and she would treat herself to a mani-pedi combo. It sounded like a great bet, one she knew she would win.

After memorizing the file, she focused on cleaning and checking her weaponry. It was easy for her to slip into the necessary mindset. After all, her body, her mind, everything about her had been trained to focus on the mission and accomplish the goals at hand. She knew that allowing her mind to drift to any topic besides the mission and its parameters would cause her to make a mistake. Mistakes in her field were usually fatal. Because she desperately wanted to return home to her son and husband after each mission, she forced herself to push them out of her mind and focus solely on the task at hand.

For once, Natasha was appreciative of the rigorous emotional and mental training Red Room inflicted upon her.

•••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

"I owe myself a manicure and a pedicure," she voiced cheerfully as she waltzed into their apartment.

"Good mission then," Clint asked, his voice floating in from the kitchen.

"10 hours and 48 minutes," Natasha confirmed. "Hi," she greeted as she kissed him. "And hello to you, Philip." The baby gurgled up at her happily. "Did he actually eat any of the food or is he wearing most of it?"

"Definitely wearing most of it," Clint laughed. "Fury called."

"Oh?"

"BlackHawk is needed for a mission."

"BlackHawk," she turned and leaned against the opposite counter.

"My thoughts exactly," he mused as he offered Philip another spoonful of baby food. "Someone started a new nickname for our partnership. My bet is Tony. It sounds like something ridiculous he would come up with just to irk us. Anyway, it's the combination of my name and yours."

"I got that part, smartass," she smirked. "What's the mission?"

"One day, we will have to stop cussing in front of him." In response to Natasha's raised eyebrow, he amended. "I may have to work on it more than you, but still, you aren't exactly known for your G-rated language." She crossed her arms over her chest and gave him a look that dared him to continue with his train of thought. "Anyway, mission," Clint sidetracked. "There's an arms dealer hiding out in Yekaterinburg who has a liking for sassy red-headed tourists, so much so there are five women with a similar description who have seemingly vanished."

"So we locate the mark and terminate him," she asked.

"Interrogate and terminate her," he corrected.

"Oh."

"So," Clint prompted while he slowly lifted Philip from his high chair, depositing him in the sink. Testing the water in the other half of the sink, he used the nozzle to rinse the baby food remnants off his son. "We've got to work on actually eating the food, kiddo." Natasha left quickly and returned with his baby shampoo, washcloth, and dry towel.

"Here, love," she murmured sweetly, passing the young child a rubber duck to play with.

"So," he asked again. "And why don't I get a sweet pet name?"

"Okay." The woman completely ignored his second question with a satirical eye roll in his direction.

"Can I get more than a one-word response?" She lifted an eyebrow at him, letting the look in her eyes respond for her. She soaped up the washcloth as Clint puttered the duck around Philip. "Do we need to talk about how we're going to manage everything?"

"Basically, you're not allowed to die. Sound good," she asked with a smirk.

"You said that when we got married."

"I meant it when we got married. I mean it now. Clint, we're agents. This is what we do. While it sucks to leave him behind, we've got a job to do. Kids are expensive, and the job pays the bills."

"You know as much as I do that at this point it isn't about money," he retorted. He wanted to know what she was thinking; he didn't want to hear her automated responses.

"We talked about this," she sighed with a shake of her head. "The job defines me. I can't just stop. I'm an agent. I'm a mother. I'm a wife. Those roles aren't self-negating. I am all three. I miss him desperately when I'm gone, but I can't just stop. It's the only thing I knew for so long. I can't just walk away from it. I wouldn't know how."

"Okay," he nodded, a soft smile on his lips.

"Can I get more than a one-word response," she rebutted with a smirk.

He scoffed at her before laughing. "I just wanted to make sure your feelings hadn't changed. I understand. Just remember, you say the word, and Stark will hire us as security consultants or something. We will still be Avengers; that doesn't change." She nodded knowingly. "So I'm not allowed to die," he continued. She could hear the joke forming in his head and rolled her eyes in preparation.

"Your daddy's an idiot," Natasha teased comically as she rinsed all the suds off Philip before wrapping him in his towel.

"I mean if I die, I'm dead. I know your wrath is far reaching, but come on, Tasha, that's a whole 'nother ball game," he joked.

"Oh yeah," she asked. She swayed gently on the balls of her feet, cradling her son in her arms. "You really want to try that? Go on; try and die on me. First of all, I would bring your sorry ass back and kill you all over again for putting me through that. Secondly, Phil is wherever you would be going, and I would bet almost anything that man would be screaming and wailing at you until you were begging to be back. We'll call it compounded wrath." She fixed him with a look that he took to mean _I-know-we-are-joking-but-do-not-die-on-me-ever_. "Like I said, little one, your daddy's an idiot, but we love him anyway."

"Shit," he grumbled. "Who are we going to leave him with for a week?"

"Stark is vetoed," Natasha responded automatically. "We'll come back to an infant in a perfect replica of the Iron Man suit. Though Pepper would make sure Tony doesn't go too crazy," she considered.

"Thor is in Asgard. That leaves Banner and Rogers."

"Banner would be a good choice. Rogers is leaving to drive down the coast on his motorcycle."

"Why don't we leave him with Banner and Pepper," Clint suggested as he expertly diapered the little boy in question. "Mission brief is tomorrow. Departure is the next day. Fury said we could stay here after the brief, even though it's against protocol, so you could spend some time with Philip before we left. I think the old man is actually a softie."

"I wouldn't say that to him," Natasha advised. "Ever," she emphasized. "That's a sure fire way to be on extended missions in Timbuktu."

"Who doesn't love Mali this time of year? I mean it's a great place to get a way. The dictionary references it as an extreme place of distance. I can sit in the middle of the desert with a camel and get sand in really uncomfortable places. And I would get to see that vein in Fury's forehead throb in irritation. It sounds like a win-win."

"Well, you have fun with that. Philip and I are going to be here in our lush New York suite in Avengers Tower in the air conditioning with fantastic water pressure and no sand whatsoever."

"I do like the water pressure." He stroked his chin pretending to balance the alternatives in his head. "What do you think, Philip? Should Daddy irk the Cyclops? We could go hang out with the camels!" The little boy grinned up at him as he gripped his feet in his hands and rocked back and forth. "That's a yes," Clint pointed out. "Look at that smile, Tasha. Our son wants me to irritate Fury. I now have a legitimate excuse."

"Daddy is blaming his bad behavior on you already," she informed her son as she picked up off the changing table. The agent perched on the rocking chair in the corner, bouncing the baby on her knees slightly. "When was the last time you needed a reason to piss off Fury?"

"It's part of my boyish charm," he countered as he leaned against the changing table. She scoffed at him. "It's why you fell in love with me," he added.

"Is it now?"

"Mhmm," he hummed. "You can't resist my enchanting jokes and mockery."

"If I recall, I spent the better part of two years either silently glaring at you or openly threatening you with death and painful forms of torture."

"But eventually, you fell for me. I slowly wore you down, and now you'll laugh at some of my jokes," Clint exclaimed victoriously.

"You're right," she consented. "11 years, countless missions, a marriage, and a child later, I will laugh at _some_ of your jokes. Your charm works so efficiently."

"You could still be cussing at me in Russian," he pointed out.

"I still do cuss at you in Russian," she countered. "And other languages based on the offense."

"Let me rephrase. You used to cuss at me in Russian, and the underlying threat of me dying painfully was very strong. Now, it's not as strong. Now, you're cussing just to cuss. There's less threat behind your obscenities now," he amended. "It's how the boyish charm works."

"Your daddy's an idiot," she whispered to her son, though there was a smile visible on her face and in the tone of her voice.

"At this rate, that's going to be his sentence," he rumbled. "Can you imagine if his first word was idiot? I can see it now. We will sit Philip in his Bumbo seat in front of Stark and just let him say idiot over and over again. Being insulted by his baby nephew might deflate his ego a little bit."

"Stop devising plans of such nature around your infant child, Barton," she chastised. "Though, that would be brilliant."

•••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

Philip's first word turned out to be "no." Barton blamed that on Fury, Pepper, and Natasha. Conversations (if they could be called such) often went in a never-ending pattern.

"Do you want your duck?"

"No."

"Do you want a bottle?"

"No."

"Should we read a book?"

"No."

"Do you love your Uncle Tony," Banner prompted from across the kitchen with a smirk.

"No," the little boy responded gleefully.

"Isn't your Uncle Bruce just the greatest guy," Stark retorted with a glare.

"No," Philip chanted with a happy smile, occasionally clapping his hands.

"Stop using my child to indirectly insult each other," Natasha chided from the other counter where she was pureeing a cup of fruit for Philip's snack.

"We're teaching him a wider vocabulary," Stark denied. "Philip, can you say Uncle Tony is amazing?"

"You're right, Tony. He knows one syllable. It's completely logical to think he can parrot back your entire egotistical sentence," Banner mocked. "That's like me asking him to write an equation to trace gamma radiation in his baby food mush."

"Of course, because sentences and tracking algorithms are of comparable intelligence," Tony rallied.

"When he's 11 months old, it might as well be."

"Stop bickering around the baby, boys," Pepper scolded as she entered the kitchen.

"We weren't bickering," Stark returned with a childish smile.

"You are always bickering about something."

"No," Philip giggled.

"Ha!" Stark pumped his fist victoriously in the air. "See that? Little Man is on my side! High five," he requested of the small child. Philip tilted his head and frowned slightly at the large hand in his face. No one mentioned that it was a look Natasha typically wore when she was trying to put the pieces of a puzzle together. Stark lifted one of Philip's hand with his other hand and guided their hands together in a high five motion. "Heck yes!"

"It's the only word he knows. It doesn't count," Banner groaned. "Trust me. If he knew you like we do, he wouldn't be on your side." Stark gasped and pretend to be hurt.

"You're just jealous I got a high five and you didn't."

"Children," Pepper sighed.

"Ha," Stark mocked again. "You just got lumped into the deep sigh of annoyance," he pointed at Banner. "How's your IQ looking now?"

"Still higher than yours," Banner retorted.

"I was mainly referring to you, Tony, but since there is actually a child in the room, I figured the plural would be more accurate."

•••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

On his first birthday, Philip flipped a cupcake on Clint's face. He looked up through his blue eyes at his father and smirked. He lifted a single chubby finger and drew it through the icing clinging to Clint's skin before sucking it into his mouth. Natasha couldn't hold back the laugh that escaped. She was grateful Pepper caught the moment on film and reminded herself to ask for duplicates of all the photos.

"Hey now, birthday boy," Clint chuckled. "Cake is for eating. Remember what we talked about, kid? We eat the food. We don't wear it."

"I think you should reconsider. I think the icing would go well with your suit," Rogers teased.

"Would it not throw off his aim," Thor boomed. "It would always make a good mid-battle snack." His laughter seemed to make the room vibrate with its pitch and volume.

"Barton, I have to agree. I think it could really help you blend into a crowd when we're undercover." Natasha joined in on the mockery. She couldn't help it. She was determined to enjoy the little moments.

"Oh do you," he stalked towards her with a dangerous smile on his face.

"Clinton Francis Barton, don't you dare." He rushed her and wrapped his arms around her smaller frame. Kissing her playfully, he managed to smear a good amount of icing from his face onto hers. When he pulled away and retreated to hide behind Philip and his highchair, she blinked her eyes free of the blue icing and licked her lips before laughing. Her laughter seemed to be contagious and everyone joined in with her.

"Oh," Stark jumped after Natasha handed Clint a wet towel to wipe off the icing on his face. "He can open his presents! Come here, little man." He picked up the little boy and tossed him in the air, causing the 1 year old to squeal excitedly. Tony put him down on the floor in front of the pile of presents. Philip turned around and looked at the adults behind him before tilting his head to look at the presents.

"Ma Ma," he called and reached up to her. "Up, Ma Ma. Up." When he was in her arms, he pointed to the presents clearly wanting her to do all the work.

"Alright, love. Let's open your presents." She sat cross-legged on the floor with Philip comfortably situated in her lap. Clint passed presents to her, and she helped the little boy unwrap them. Every gift seemed to make music and loud noises with accompanying swirling lights. Philip was hooked and immediately wanted to play with everything. He crawled out of Natasha's lap and sat down in the middle of all his wrapping paper. Finding an empty bag, he put it on his head and rocked side-to-side giggling.

The adults continued to chat and swap stories. At all times, someone was playing with Philip, showing him how to bounce the new ball that lit up and sparkled or showing him how to push the button to turn on the pillow lamp that projected the stars on the ceiling. Stark showed him how to hold the mini guitar and make music. Pepper passed Natasha a bottle of extra-strength aspirin with a knowing smile. When he was all tuckered out, Philip found Clint in the mess of adults and clamored into his lap. Natasha handed her partner their son's blanket from the couch. The little boy gripped it tightly and snuggled into his father as he started to doze.

"I've got to say," Rogers commented. "You both seem to be meant to do this. I mean you are both natural in the field too," he quickly backtracked. "You really are good parents," he complimented with a fond smile on his face. "I mean look how happy he is." Rogers gestured to the boy slumbering in Clint's lap with a loose fist around his blanket and a thumb in his mouth.

"He's a good kid," Barton agreed, running a gentle hand through his son's shaggy sandy blonde hair.

"He looks just like you," Pepper mentioned.

"But he acts just like her," Tony added. "Did you see that smirk earlier? That screamed Natasha. I'm also pretty sure he said something in Russian the other day."

"Sounds like we did good, Tasha," Clint mused. He smiled lovingly at the little boy and then at his wife.

"I want one," Tony proclaimed.

"One what," Banner prompted already looking nervous with the direction of this conversation.

"One of those."

"You want one of me," Barton asked. "Sorry, bud. You're shit out of luck. I'm one of a kind."

"Not you, you idiot," Stark countered. "A baby. I want one." He turned to Pepper. "I want one," he repeated seriously. The taller woman looked at him with wide eyes.

"On that note, I'm going to go hide in the gym," Rogers coughed as he excused himself. "Happy birthday, Philip," he whispered quietly to the little boy.

"Your proposition sounds swell," Thor agreed much louder than the captain.

"I think the lab is calling my name." Banner excused himself.

Natasha jerked her head towards the elevator before rising to her feet and gently untangling Philip from Clint's lap. The archer got up and quickly followed her. They would clean up later.

"I want one," Tony repeated sincerely. It was the last part of the conversation Natasha and Clint heard as the elevator doors closed and delivered them to their floor.

Cradling the sleeping boy, she walked quietly to the nursery. She kissed his forehead and hugged him to her chest. "Sleep tight, little one. I love you," she whispered as she laid him down in the crib.

"I think I agree with Stark," Clint voiced as soon as Natasha closed the door behind her.

"You agree that he wants one?" The confusion was evident in her voice. She walked over to the couch and dropped onto it gratefully.

"No. Well, yes. I know he wants one. He talked about it before." Natasha lifted her eyebrows in a clear, unspoken question. "We were drinking. It makes him open up and get into story-telling mode or something." He paused as he tried to find the confidence to spill his thoughts. She waited patiently. Both of them had difficulty verbalizing feelings and emotions regardless of the trust or love in their partnership. When he finally spoke, her eyes widened and her jaw dropped. "I think I want another one, Tasha."


	7. Chapter 7

Author's Note: Sorry for the delay. I lost my focus there for a bit, but have no fear; I'm back with more shenanigans from Avengers Tower.

Disclaimer: I still own nothing. I'm just playing around with Marvel's characters for a while. No infringement intended.

Fury has to have the worst timing known to mankind. Well, the worst or the best depending on the viewpoint taken. As soon as Clint declared the words and Natasha's ears processed the request, JARVIS interrupted with an urgent message from the one-eyed director. The archer grumbled while the assassin mentally thanked the older man for helping her side step a conversation she wasn't particularly sure she wanted to have.

"We have an issue," Fury announced.

"What's the mission, Director," Captain asked, his voice filtering through the PA system in the building, altering the partners that this was a team mission.

"Some dumbass decided it would be a brilliant idea to breed Chitauri-like minions. Said army is ravaging Idaho. Our intel says the plan backfired, and the army destroyed its creator. Go contain it before the fuckers take over the Mid-West." There was a long pause. "Yes, I'm aware the Council is on the other line. Tell them I'm working on it." Another pause. "God damnit. I'll tell them just where they can shove their stupid ass decision. You," Fury addressed an un-seen junior agent. "Hold. Put them on hold. Why did we hire you?" Clint snickered as the director berated some poor kid. "Avengers," he paused. "Are you part of the Avengers? No, at this rate, I will never clear you for the field much less my elite team of superheroes. Now shut up. As I was saying," Fury growled, "the Council is up my ass. Fix it."

"Yes sir," came the general reply. As JARVIS announced the termination of the call, Clint bent over laughing.

"He's in a mood," Tony grumbled from his suite, the PA system still connecting all the Avengers.

"Well, with the Council up his ass, you can see why. I wouldn't be chipper with that many people shoved in my backdoor, either," Clint jabbed with a smirk. He narrowly avoided Natasha's elbow colliding with his rib.

"We should give him an industrial-sized bottle of lube for Christmas," Tony bantered easily.

"Boys," Pepper chided as Captain ordered them all to the roof in the next five minutes.

Clint and Natasha immediately started their normal routine. It was a well-oiled machine. They dressed accordingly, each turning to fill the holsters with an array of knives, guns, and ammo. It was something as normal as breathing; suiting up was, in fact, a daily routine. And as usual, the two turned to each other, checking zips and ammo, security of the holsters and the clips of the utility belts, snugness of the arm guards and gloves. Two sets of eyes never hurt. Wordlessly, the two well-armed parents slipped into Philip's nursery and each kissed him, the boy still fast asleep.

As the left the suite, Pepper stepped in with a nod, smile, and a whispered "Good Luck" before dropping herself on the couch. The assassins were on the roof in four and a half minutes flat.

•••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

"Intel says most of the fuckers are still surrounding the lab. They have scientists and civilians cornered in the underground floors. Reports from those already fighting say these mutants are different in the fact that their blood, or fluid shit, is infected. It's acidic and seemingly contagious. Don't let it touch you," Fury instructed as the team flew.

"That should be fairly simple. It's not like we have to fight them or anything," Clint mumbled agitatedly from the pilot's seat. Natasha sent him a glare.

"If it does touch us," Banner asked.

"Nothing good happens."

"Could you be a little less vague, Director," Stark snipped.

"We've got a cure, but it's damn painful. The real danger is blood pressure and heart rate from the pain; it also causes hallucinations. From the agents unfortunate enough to be doused in it, it feels like fire in your veins, burning you from the inside out. The agents are fine now, after having numerous rounds of injections and taking chemical baths, but they all have varying degrees of burns that have to be treated."

"Got it. Don't touch the mutant bodily fluid," Clint affirmed. He looked over at Natasha with a pointed look. She returned the look easily, as if to say _dumb-ass-you're-the-one-without-sleeves_. He rolled his eyes and focused on the sky.

Landing some ways away from the lab, the team loaded out of the QuinJet and surveyed the scene around them. "They look bigger," Clint quipped. "Much bigger." Captain nodded in agreement before calling out plays.

Iron Man took the perimeter while rounding up the few mutant warriors that had already left the lab. Clint climbed through the ventilation system of the lab, firing arrows left and right at Chitauri-like aliens. Hulk smashed through walls, effectively destroying a good number of the alien team. Widow, Captain, and Thor entered and immediately spread out, killing those that came in their paths as they made their way to the hostages.

Natasha shot two of them quickly as she rounded the corner- one a fatal shot, the other almost fatal. She stepped over the fallen bodies and continued down the corridor. When she heard a commotion, she turned to see the alien she just shot regenerating, its wound closing. As it healed, it grew, seeming to grow at least a foot taller, before advancing on her. She holstered her weapon and lunged at it, delivering a solid punch to its jaw before taking it down with a trademark thigh choke.

"They can regenerate," she breathed heavily into her comm. "The fuckers grow."

"Well that's just fucking fantastic," Stark grumbled.

The fighting continued; each shot taken by any of the Avengers was a kill shot. The minions seemed to keep coming from everywhere.

"The fuck?" Clint grumbled loudly. "Where are they coming from? The lab isn't all that big."

"There's a labyrinth underneath," Natasha responded.

"It seems like they all have the same thought. They're being controlled by something," Captain mentioned.

"They're being controlled by someone," Fury corrected, interrupting their general commentary of the battle. "The original scientist, one Nathaniel Miller, mixed his DNA with some of the Chituari DNA he could salvage from a body pulled from the wreckage in Manhattan. It altered everything about him, but also gave him the mental control over the minions he spawned with his DNA mixture."

"He's the key," Captain declared. "Do we know where he is?"

"I think I found him," Natasha whispered quietly into the mic. "We might need the Hulk for this one, Cap. Miller is huge." There was a long pause, a strangled curse word, and the familiar sound of rounds being fired.

"Tasha," Clint called, demanding a response.

In the control room, Natasha found herself standing face-to-stomach with a very large, very unhappy being. Its skin was green tinted like the Chitauri. Though its face held more of a human quality, the rest of its body had morphed and mixed into a blend of human and alien. It was easily double her height. She chose not to guess its weight. The thing had remarkable senses as it identified her hiding spot based on her brief whisper to her teammates. She went through a full round of ammo as she ran backwards through the hallway, trying to remember which way she had come while focusing on the giant creature barreling down on her.

Her bullets seemed to be small nuisances to the mutant. They nicked its skin, penetrated its torso, but didn't slow it down. Another murmured curse word before she was tackled through the wall by the creature. She could vaguely hear people screaming in her ear, but she kept her attention focused on the man-alien above her. Surrounded by a pile of dry wall and crumbling plaster, Natasha can feel the concrete pieces digging into her body; she can smell the material of her tactical suit burning where the mutant's blood transferred to her. She can look up and see the monster the man has become.

For the second time in her life, she felt her body being lifted off the ground and thrown like nothing more than a rag doll. The assassin hit the wall behind her at full force, crumpling to the floor. Between the pain of the blood now touching her skin through the burned holes in the suit and the overwhelming pain of colliding with a concrete barrier at the speed of a moving truck, she distantly heard herself scream.

Stark shouted commands to JARVIS about the blueprints of the maze of hallways beneath the lab while Thor trampled through the corpses of the aliens. Clint scrambled through the ventilation trying to find his wife as Captain tried to follow the path he thought Natasha had taken. Her first scream stopped them all momentarily. None of the teammates had ever heard Natasha Romanov, the Black Widow, scream in agony. Within moments they were urgently trying to find her in the destructed rubble of everything.

The thing that used to be Doctor Miller crushed through the debris to stand in front of her, its chest heaving and its eyes yellow and black. It seemed to breathe deeply and she had a single second to wonder what the hell it was doing before it retched onto her, covering her body in fluid.

There was a split second of wondering if the mixture had the same acidic properties as the blood before the searing pain hit her skin. There were gaping holes in her suit where a majority of the fluids hit; leaving a tattered garment that barely covered her. The screaming in her ears didn't sound like her own.

Hazily, she watched the figure in front be tackled and beaten by a raging Hulk. She writhed in pain from the acidic fluids, and as she writhed, her bruised and battered body sustained more damage and caused more pain. It took around two minutes for the pain to reach an unbearable level, and her brain shut off, a defense mechanism, and drifted into unconscious.

Stark was the first to find her. He scooped her up in his arms, her body hanging limply. She whimpered, and he was floored. He had never once in his life heard her make that noise. "JARVIS, find me a contamination shower in this lab. I've got her."

"Where are you," Clint and Captain demanded simultaneously.

"4 floors down from the main level through the two demolished hallways to the right. We've got to move her though. That thing wrecked havoc on the structural integrity of this building. The sooner we get out, the better. I have JARVIS finding a chemical shower, so we can rinse of whatever the fluid is on her before we fly her back to medical," Stark responded as he stepped through the debris carefully. He briefly debated about whether he should have picked her up or not; given the force she went through the wall with the giant beast, he figured she could have injuries that needed to be set before moving her. When she whimpered in pain through her unconscious again, Stark banished the thought and quickly worked his way up to the main floor.

One of the scientists who had previously been held hostage pointed him to a functioning chemical shower. Stark briefly and mentally commended his genius for making a waterproof suit. He stepped under the shower with the assassin in his arms. Captain was the next to appear, quickly urging another scientist to shed his lab coat. His large body served as a visual barrier, keeping Natasha from peering eyes. Barton practically fell through the ceiling and rushed to them. "Barton, you can't touch her," Captain reminded. Thor held him back, keeping the archer from taking his wife from Stark's hands.

"Medical and clean-up crews on their way. What happened," Fury questioned through the comm.

"Romanov got a full blast of the fluid. Stark has her in the contamination shower now. Barton and Thor are leading the hostages outside for pick-up. Hulk terminated Miller," Captain relayed. He gave a pointed look at Barton and Thor. The former clenched his jaw and his fists, wanting desperately to disobey; he didn't though and started leading the living scientists through the rubble.

When Stark and Captain made it to the QuinJet with Natasha, a medical team rushed to them, taking her from Iron Man's hands and onto the medical jet. Barton didn't hesitate for a moment and quickly followed. The lead on the medical team started to say something, started to object the archer's presence on the jet, but he was silenced with a single look from Captain.

"We'll meet you there," Stark promised and Barton nodded.

•••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

"ETA 65 minutes. Medic on site ready and waiting for the second round of injections. Authorized first round of injection by on staff medic," the pilot dispatched through the system.

Natasha started to come to briefly as the flight continued, fading in and out of consciousness. The medics flitted around her- checking her ribs, neck, and spine; confirming functionality of her organs; monitoring her blood pressure and heart rate. With the nurses buzzing around her, Clint was pushed off to the side where he sat mostly out of the way. He couldn't see his partner, but he could hear her screams from earlier reverberating in his head like an echo in a canyon. It made his head thrum and his heart ache. It was easily his least favorite sound in the world, and he would give almost anything if he never had to hear it again. Unfortunately for him, that wasn't the case. As Natasha came back, the fluid induced hallucinations started.

The medics worked around her, trying to keep her flailing limbs from knocking them out of the way. The assassin thrashed on the stretcher as her delirium altered the reality she saw. In her diluted mind, the nurses were monsters and the inside of the jet turned into flames surrounding and suffocating her. Memories of her parents' death fueled the hallucinations until she felt like she was in hell, her own personal hell in which every drip of red in her ledger would be tortured and pulled from her until she was no longer red, no longer in debt. She screamed as she struggled, and they couldn't hold her still long enough to give her a sedative.

"Barton, do something," the lead medic pleaded. "We can't help her if she doesn't calm down."

He nodded and jumped into action. He dodged a swing of her left fist, easily catching it in his palm, and he repeated the process with her right. "Tasha," Barton whispered into her ear not housing the comm link. "Tasha, breathe," he requested. Her arms stopped tugging and fighting against him. His hands, after releasing her, reached up to cradle her face. "Look at me, Tasha. Can you see me?" She nodded heavily, a look of unadulterated fear in her green eyes. "What do you see, Tash? Tell me what you see."

"Fire," she mumbled, the words hoarse and broken.

"Am I on fire?" She shook her head. "Are you on fire?" She nodded and her body seemed to contract with pain beneath him. "The medics are here to help you." Natasha tensed and shook her head vehemently. In her hallucination, she hadn't seen medics; she saw monsters and she couldn't handle monsters, couldn't fight them off when her body was in so much pain. Another wave of burning washed over her, drowning her wave after wave in fire. She bit her lip, hard, to keep from crying out; a tear slipped from her eye before getting lost in her hair. "I know it hurts. They can help you, Tasha." She shook her head again and locked her hands around his forearms, wincing as the movement caused a shift in her ribs.

"I'll give it to her," Barton said. "Get me whatever I need and stay out of her visual. Where does the injection need to go?" As the medics fumbled around to get him the items he requested, he turned back to her.

"Do you trust me," he asked. He knew the answer, of course, but he wanted to give her the feeling of control. She closed her eyes, a few more tears escaping, and nodded her head. "Okay then. I'm going to give you the first round of injections that Fury talked about, remember?" She nodded again, less certainly this time.

"The injection needs to go directly into her blood stream. It's recommended to use one of the veins in the neck. It's going to feel like ice running through her veins for a minute or so until it starts to react with the acidic fluid. Then it's going to burn. You'll have to hold her down or she'll hurt herself more. After waiting two and a half minutes, you're going to give her the second shot in the same place. It's a strong antibiotic that we've found combats the burning sensation in the veins." The medic lead instructed as he passed the alcohol wipe and the first syringe. "Do you want to sedate her?"

Barton looked down at his wife, who was sweating and rolling in pain, her lip bleeding from biting it. He locked eyes with her. "Just like Budapest, Tasha?" She nodded as her body writhed. "Okay," he confirmed, straddling her body on the stretcher. He kept his weight off of her, but effectively pinned her lower body down. "No sedative," he replied to the medic behind him. Again, he locked eyes with her as he disinfected the injection site. "Ready?" She gave him a curt nod and he pierced her skin quickly and efficiently, emptying the syringe into her system.

Her body slacked for a moment, the cooling effects easing the pain momentarily. Barton swapped the used syringe for the second during the moment of rest, before pushing his strong forearms against her biceps. Like the medic said, a minute later, pain flooded her body more intensely than before, and her body bucked into his, trashing beneath him. Tears leaked from her eyes as she whimpered and cried out.

It was the longest two and a half minutes of his life.

The second injection dulled the pain significantly and her body gave out under him, no longer tensed like a drawn bowstring. He brushed hair from her face and kissed her forehead. He didn't care who was watching. Barton slipped off her body before kneeling on the floor. The rest of the flight to headquarters, he whispered in her ear words no one else could hear and held her hand.

•••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

Medical kept her in the infirmary for the first week and a half. It wasn't after she made three nurses cry and threatened SHIELD's head of medicine within an inch of his life that they released her to Avengers Tower with very detailed instructions about treating her burns. Stark assured the doctor that Natasha would have access to all the medical attention needed. He was, after all, Tony Stark, and he made that very clear.

Fury signed off on her release immediately because Philip had turned his helicarrier into a damn Gymboree.

"Fuck," Stark shouted as he raced through the halls of the helicarrier. He physically collided with the Director. "Fuck. Fuck."

"What did you do now?"

"Why do people constantly ask me that question? I didn't do anything for god's sake."

"Then why are you cussing like a sailor and turning my orderly hallways into a free-for-all, Mr. Stark?"

"It's part of my charm," Tony tried with a smirk that caused the vein in Fury's left temple to pulse with irritation.

"Let me repeat. What did you do?"

"I lost the kid."

"The kid? There aren't children on this base, Stark." Fury paused and violently glared at the shorter man. "The kid," he said again as if tumbling the words in his mouth. "The kid. You lost the kid. Romanov's child. The Black Widow's child. In my helicarrier. Are you out of your fucking mind?"

"He was there, and Captain had him. And now he's gone! And fuck we're leaving to take her back to the Tower before she actually makes good on her threat to the physician. We lost her kid," Stark rambled.

"Hill," Fury called into the comm link that was part of the daily uniform. "We have lost a baby in the carrier. We need to find him ASAP."

"He's only one," Stark shrieked, already fretting over his impending doom. "How far could he have gotten?"

"Philip is the child of two of the world's best assassins. Do you really want me to answer that question," Fury returned with a look that clearly read _stop-being-such-a-fucking-idiot_. The director put a hand up to his ear. "He's where," the bald man all but shouted.

"Where? Where is he?" Stark demanded, bouncing anxiously on the balls of his feet.

"He's in the ventilation system."

"Fuck, he really is Barton's kid. I'd always thought that there was the slight inkling that maybe he wasn't. The kid's too good looking to be Barton's kid," the genius mused.

"If you like your balls where they are, Stark, I don't recommend voicing that particular thought to either of the assassins. Get that baby out of my damn AC system, and then get her the fuck off my helicarrier before I have to hire a whole new slew of nurses." Fury turned on his heels, his long coat flapping slightly, before dangerously stalking off to find someone to yell at.

"How am I supposed to get in the vents," Tony called after him. He desperately turned his vision towards the ceiling as if maybe it would grant him an idea.

•••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

The young boy turned two the night of a meteor shower. It was late at night, and Clint took him from his crib before climbing into his perch. Philip snuggled against his chest, his head tucked under Clint's chin. His little fist gripped Clint's shirt in one hand and his blanket in the other. When the shower began, he rearranged his grip on his son, so Philip could see the brilliant stars in the sky.

"See, buddy? Isn't that cool? Look at the stars."

"Pretty," Philip mumbled around the thumb in his mouth. "Pretty stars." He drew his attention from the sky and looked at his surroundings. "Daddy's nest," he noted happily.

Clint laughed, knowing the boy had picked up that phrase from his mother. "Yeah, kiddo. We're in Daddy's nest. Guess what today is?" Philip looked up at him with his big blue eyes, a question clear in their depths. "Today's your birthday. You're two today!"

"Two," Philip repeated with a smile. He leaned back against his father's chest and his eyes fought to stay open.

"Good night, Philip. Happy birthday. I love you," Clint whispered reverently to young boy in his lap. When the shower was over, he climbed down carefully, tucked Philip back in his crib, and slid into bed next to Natasha. The woman, sensing his returned presence, turned over and curled herself against his side, one of her legs thrown over his and her head pillowed against his chest. He breathed in her hair, kissed the top of her head, and burrowed into the pillow and blanket formed nest.

"Our son is two," he whispered in awe, his words muffled by her red curls.

"He is," she returned. Even in the dark, he could hear the smile on her face. "Damn."

"Yeah, it doesn't feel like two years at all. I blinked, Tasha, and now he's two. We've really got to stop blinking. We miss things."

"You're Hawkeye. You don't miss things."

"It's just going by so fast."

"It is," she agreed sleepily. "You really want another one?"

"Yeah," he affirmed into the darkness. "Yeah, I do."

"You realize how crazy this is, yes?"

"I learned long ago to embrace the crazy."

"Okay," she agreed.

His excitement skyrocketed, sleep nearly banished from his mind. "Okay," he asked. "We can have another child?" Natasha nodded against his chest. Smiling widely, Clint rolled them over, kissing her soundly. "Thank you," he mumbled against her lips between kisses. "Thank you."


	8. Chapter 8

Author's Note: I got a brilliant idea from an anonymous reviewer about SHIELD's "Bring Your Kid to Work" Day. I also had another reviewer request some extended Natasha-Pepper friendship moments, so both ideas are incorporated into this chapter. Leave a review with an idea if you've got something you're dying to see. I love to hear about what y'all want to see come out of this story.

Continued Author's Note: Also, because I felt badly about the time delay between the last posting, you get **two chapters** today. That's normally unheard of for me. Then I saw that the story has over 100 reviews, and it just blew me away. Keep the reviews coming, and I'll keep spitting out more chapters!

Disclaimer: I own nothing. I'm just playing around with the characters for shits and giggles.

"Barton," Fury addressed. "There's a child sitting on your desk."

"Very observant, Director," the archer responded without looking up from his paperwork.

"Let me rephrase. Why is there a child sitting on your desk?"

"Didn't you get the memo? It's 'Bring Your Child to Work' Day." He barely hid a smirk in the file he was working on. You could almost feel the irritation cascading from Fury in waves. The other agents actively tried to avoid him.

"SHIELD is one of the world's most powerful intelligence agency. We don't exactly work well with children, Barton."

"Well, sir, you demanded I turn in my reports from our last few missions in a timely manner. Romanov is pregnant if you recall the moment you gawked at her and she threw a pen at your face and nearly punctured your throat. She is taking the day to go to doctors appointments and whatnot, so Philip is with me today."

"You live at Avengers Tower. You have built in babysitters."

"No, we have built in superheroes and an AI that really isn't capable of watching him since JARVIS isn't technically human."

"I like JARVIS," Philip voiced his opinion.

"Fine. You have built in superheroes. I'm sure one of them can watch the kid," Fury countered, completely ignoring Philip's statement.

"First, the kid has a name. His name is Philip. Secondly, really? Stark lost him in the AC unit of the helicarrier, and he's working on some explosive addition for his suit in the lab. Banner is in Calcutta for the week. Pepper is with Natasha. Thor might as well be a child himself. He still burns PopTarts, you know. And Rogers is driving his motorcycle down the coast for some R&R. Would you like to watch him? Then, I can finish my paperwork and be out of your hair. If not, he's going to sit on my desk and continue to distract the agents, who by the way I'm almost positive have never actually seen a child before."

"He's coloring on the memo I sent you yesterday," Fury pointed out. "At least give him some paper that isn't important."

"I did," the archer countered with a smirk. "I gave him the memo you sent yesterday."

"Barton," Fury growled. "Don't let him out of your sight. It's a dangerous place for a child."

"Yes, he's in so much danger here on base where everyone in a thirty mile radius knows he is my child and that whoever dares touch him will be at the business end of not only my arrows but Romanov's thigh choke and basically the combined wrath of all the Avengers. No one without a death wish is going to endanger my child."

"Just don't kill anyone," Fury sighed unhappily.

"No promises, Director."

Barton grumbled and refocused on his files. "Daddy hates paperwork," he complained to the little boy. "Absolutely hates paperwork. Daddy also really does not like Nick Fury." Philip laughed and continued scribbling on and across numerous pages. His pale skin displayed lots of colorful marker streaks; his hands, face, and arms were more or less covered. Yet he was content to sit on the desk and color. A ream of paper later, Clint stood up and stretched after dropping the last file into his completed stack. "Want to go watch Daddy shoot arrows," he asked.

"Daddy shoot arrows," Philip replied, clapping his hands. The child leaped from the desk and into Barton's arms. The older man tickled him as he headed down towards the range. The young boy's laughter filled the hallways of the helicarrier, and the sound, while very pleasant, was definitely out of character for the usually somber base.

The range was completely empty; after all, Barton was the only agent whose preferred weapon was a bow and arrow. While other agents occasionally needed to qualify with the weapon, they rarely practiced in this area. It was an unspoken rule almost that this was Barton's territory. Like he didn't take too fondly to people touching his weapons, he didn't like people screwing with his targets either. He lowered Philip to the ground in the corner behind a baby gate he doubted Fury knew about. In the playpen type area, Legos and books scattered the floor. Clint ruffled Philip's hair, thinking vaguely that the young boy probably needed a haircut.

Unloading his quiver and bow from their case, he set up at one of the lanes where he could clearly see Philip while sighting his shots. It was a common enough occurrence whether the assassins were training on base or at home. Philip would come down with them more often than not and play with his toys in the corner, well out of the way of any danger. Stark even built playrooms into one of the gyms and the shooting range to keep the young boy entirely out of harm's way. The playrooms' walls were made out of transparent bulletproof and arrow proof material as opposed to the usual dry wall and plaster combination. Toys, books, and beanbags filled both rooms. Clearly, Stark was planning on adding to the Avengers' brood of children at some point or another.

An hour later, Philip started to grow annoyed with the toys in reach. He opted instead for throwing the Legos at Clint. "Daddy." A red Lego launched itself towards the older man. "Daddy. Daddy. Daddy. Daddy. Daddy." A Lego for each chant clattered to the ground with the other thrown Legos.

"Yeah, Philip? What's up?"

"Bored, Daddy."

"Okay, I hear you. One Scooby Doo and then we'll go home." Philip pouted, but stopped throwing Legos.

"You have your child in a firing range," Fury scolded from the doorway of the range. "He's actually within shooting distance of projectiles that could injure him. Do you see the liability issues, Barton? Also, why is there a baby gate on my base?"

"We both know I don't miss. I'm the only one in here, and I'm sure as hell not going to shoot my own child with an arrow."

"You shot your wife with an arrow once," Fury countered.

"My wife was a target once. My wife was also not a 2 and a half year old child."

"Your wife was a nevertheless."

"So was I," Barton responded. "What do you want, Director?"

"I've got a mission for you. It's an in-and-out, but your firing distance is needed; the mark is a touch on the paranoid side and intel says no one gets close enough. Here," he dropped the file on the table to the left of the archer. "Plane leaves in two hours."

"Yes sir." He retrieved his arrows, checking the tips and shafts as he loaded them back in his quiver. The compact bow collapsed into its carrier. Barton walked to the corner, lifted Philip easily onto his hip, grabbed the weapons case and the folder in one hand, and left. "Come on, kiddo. Let's get you home."

Once in the car, he grumbled and groaned as he called his partner. "Hey Tasha. I've got an assignment. Where are you?"

From his car seat in the back, Philip clapped happily. "Mama. Mama. Mama. Mama."

"By popular demand, I'm putting you on speakerphone to appease the pint sized cheerleader in the backseat."

"Mama. Mama. Mama. Mama. Mama."

"Привет, малыш," Natasha greeted the child warmly. He chirped back a reply in perfect Russian. "When do you leave?"

"2 hours. I just left base. If you're still at the doctor's, I'll get Stark to postpone his explosions until you can come home."

"I can be there in 20 minutes. No need to interrupt him when he plays science," Natasha said. Clint could hear Pepper laughing in the background.

"Did the appointment go well?"

"Yeah, everything's normal. I'll see you soon, boys."

"Say bye to Mommy," Clint prompted their son.

"пока!"

•••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

The second Philip's feet hit the ground he was running over to the elevator, bouncing slightly on the balls of his feet, eagerly waiting to go upstairs. "Daddy, hurry," he commanded anxiously. "Wanna see Mama."

"Yeah, yeah. I'm coming. I'm coming." The agent walked behind his son at a much more leisurely pace.

When the sliding doors opened to their floor, his little feet slapped the floor as he rushed over to their door, pausing only to turn around and glare at his father, who was obviously moving much too slowly for his taste. Clint couldn't help but recognize the glare on their son's face as one Natasha sported frequently. "Seriously, kid? Calm down. Mommy's not going anywhere."

"Mama!" Philip screamed excitedly as he ran into the living room. He leaped into her arms when he saw coming in from the kitchen. "Mama!"

"Hi, love. Did you have fun with Daddy at the office?"

"He's a poop," the boy responded seriously.

"Daddy's a poop," Natasha clarified barely holding in a laugh. Pepper, however, who was sitting on a couch in the living room, broke out in a wide grin and laughed happily.

"Hey now," Clint objected as he kissed Natasha's cheek. "Be nice to Daddy."

"No, Fury," Philip corrected very sternly. "Fury's a poop."

"Well that I agree wholeheartedly with," Clint nodded vigorously as he moved to the closet in their bedroom to suit up.

"Yeah, I can see it," Pepper agreed from her spot. "It's also reassuring to hear he hasn't picked up any of the curse words I'm positive he's heard around the Tower."

Natasha sat down on the couch, her legs tucked under her like a pretzel. Philip snuggled himself into her lap contentedly. "Mama," he mumbled happily. He moved one of her hands to his stomach as he leaned back into her chest. With her free hand, she affectionately ruffled his hair before kissing the top of his head. "Я люблю тебя."

"I love you too," she responded into his ear.

"Scooby Doo," the little boy asked hopefully.

"JARVIS," Pepper called, happy to appease her nephew's wish. "Right away, Miss Potts." The TV kicked to life and Philip was immediately hooked. The women conversed over his head about anything and everything until Clint returned to the room in his suit. He handed Philip his blanket and kissed the little boy.

"Look Philip, Daddy's all suited up. Can you say bye to Daddy?"

"Daddy go shoot," Philip asked, turning his attention away from the TV for a split second.

"Yeah, bud. I'll be home soon though. I love you," he affirmed.

"Love you too, Daddy!"

"Be safe," Pepper called.

Clint kissed Natasha over their son's head and whispered in her ear. She smiled brightly at him and returned the kiss. He brushed a caring hand over the top of her stomach; only those who knew her could see she had really gained any weight at all.

Barton slipped into the car and sped back to base, briefly wondering why Fury was in such a shitty mood. It was definitely contagious. A quick retina scan and he was parked in the garage. Grabbing his weapons case and the mission brief, he stopped in his on-base quarters to review everything before being on deck to leave. As he sat down in one of the chairs and kicked his feet up, a paper crinkled in the pocket of his pants. Frowning because he never put things in his suit pocket, he dug around until he found a post it note with Natasha's handwriting.

_Wherever you're headed, if you see a tutu, you may want to buy it. We're going to need to stock up for Baby #2._

His foul mood disappeared just like that. He was going to have a daughter. Clint nearly jumped in the air to click his heels together. A knock on his door caused his head to swivel towards the intruding noise. The door slid open to reveal Fury. Clint audibly groaned. "You have a finely tuned radar to recognize when people are happy and you swoop in to come and destroy it, don't you? You can't just let me have my moment of pure joy. Can you go away for about 5 minutes and come back with whatever the hell you need?"

"Barton," Fury growled. "They're waiting for you on deck."

"When did you become the little errand boy? Aren't you supposed to be the Director of this fine institution?" The archer mocked with a dangerous smirk on his face.

"Watch it, Barton."

"Sir, yes sir," he scoffed as he grabbed his case, the file, and the post it note. "My child thinks you're a poop by the way."

"He spends too much time with you and Stark clearly," Fury rebutted. "Just go do your mission and don't fuck anything up."

"Your concern for my well being is touching," Barton bantered as he left his quarters and headed for the deck.

•••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

"So Baby Number Two," Stark prompted from across the table. "I vote we name the young spider Antonia."

"For goodness sake, we are not doing this again, Stark," Captain chided. "It is their child, and they are going to name the baby whatever they want. They are not going to name the baby after you. Your ego can't handle much more inflation. It's like trying to fill a balloon past its stretch point. It explodes."

"Did you just refer to my genius as a latex party decoration?"

"Is that not a condom," Thor asked, genuinely confused about the terminology.

"Sort of," Stark replied. "A condom is like a balloon for your…" His sentence trailed off as Pepper smacked the back of his head with an open palm.

"Do not finish that sentence, Tony," the tall woman advised.

"What," he shrieked. "It's not like Philip doesn't hear his lovely agent parents cursing. You've heard them have sex. Hell, most of Manhattan has heard her have sex. She's not exactly quiet." He met the deadly glare of Natasha and the menacing glare of his longtime girlfriend. "On that note, I have chocolate for you. JARVIS, find me chocolate," he demanded under his breath as he scuttled away from the table. "Find me chocolate now!"

"That trick never gets old," Pepper laughed. Philip started to get restless in his high chair, so she reached over and lifted him out. "Hey little man. Want your water?" Pepper bounced him slightly on her knees as he leaned back into her chest.

"So," Natasha started, noticing that it was just the three of them in the room since Stark vanished to find apologetic chocolate. "What's…" She paused and shuffled through the words in her head. She met Pepper's confused look. "I'm not good at this," she replied to the unvoiced question.

"You're not exactly great with words when it comes to normal interactions. Just spit it out," Pepper encouraged.

"What's holding you back from having one yourself? You're so good with him." Natasha took Pepper's advice and spit the words out, not giving much concern to how blunt it sounded. There were just certain facets that couldn't be ironed out of her personality. She watched the other woman cradle Philip in her lap lovingly.

"We live with crazy people," Pepper deadpanned. "Absolutely crazy people."

"There's that, yes. But would you want it any other way?" Pepper shrugged undecidedly. "So what's really the problem?"

"Everything around us is so abnormal that I want to do this in the traditional order. Marriage then baby. Tony doesn't seem to want to do the first part, so I'm not so sure I want to jump into the second part," the strawberry blonde confided sadly.

"That makes sense." Natasha understood that point of view completely, especially coming from her friend.

"I want him to want it because he wants it, not because he thinks I want it."

"Remember when I said I'm not good at this friendship, listening and offering advice thing," the red head asked. "You lost me."

Pepper laughed softly in spite of herself. She gave Natasha a lot of credit. She knew the other woman actively avoided emotions unless it directly involved Philip. She knew the agent preferred to keep an emotionless façade. She greatly appreciated Natasha dealing with personal discomfort in order to help her figure out where she stood in her relationship with Tony. "I don't want to him to marry me unless it's something he wants as much as I do. I don't want him to go through the motions because he knows I want him to do that. I want him to do it because he wants to."

"Stark never does anything he doesn't want to do, but I see where you're coming from I think."

"I've tried subtle hints that it's what I want. You know, in case, he thinks I don't want it," Pepper admitted.

"Again, Stark is about as a subtle as a nuclear explosion, so I'm thinking anything that gets his attention isn't going to fall into the category of subtle. Do you want me to get Clint to bring it up the next time they go drinking, not to encourage him to do anything but to see where he stands?"

"I'm impressed, Natasha. That's what someone who's good at friendships and helping with emotional distress would say. I'm so proud," Pepper feigned excitement.

"Yeah, yeah. Mock away," Natasha rebutted with a laugh.

"I'm also equally impressed you didn't offer to physically knock some sense into him."

"Oh, that's a standing offer," the agent emphasized. "Anytime you want his ego knocked down a few pegs, just let me know. I have to say, it's a very effective method, and I'm speaking from years of experience. All you have to do is say the word; you know how much I thoroughly enjoy hitting him."

"Honestly," Pepper continued. "I think the list of people who don't enjoy hitting him would be much, much shorter than the list of those who would love to take a swing at his goatee-d face."

•••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

"I hate the mud," Clint announced as he dropped his bags haphazardly on the floor. "I absolutely hate the mud with every fiber of being. I might hate Fury a little more than that though. The jury's still out on the rankings of my shit list." He shuffled into the living room and groaned happily at the sight of his couch. "Oh couch," he addressed. "How I've missed you."

"Do not even think about sitting your mud-caked ass on that couch, Barton," Natasha warned from the kitchen.

"But, darling, it looks so inviting," he drawled, emphasizing the pet name. He watched her shoot daggers at him around the refrigerator. "Fine," he grumbled. "Hi." He kissed her, leaning into her and feeling the telltale sign of pregnancy pressed against his stomach. "Hi little one," he whispered to her stomach, kissing the bump through the fabric of her shirt. "Can I kill Fury for sending me on a two week long mission to the ass end of the middle of fucking nowhere?"

"No, sadly you can't, though trust me I've thought about it."

"I missed you." She turned in his arms, pushing her back firmly against his chest. His hands rested on her now obviously large and pregnant stomach. "How is everything?"

Natasha kissed his cheek and continued making dinner, albeit more slowly with his arms wrapped around her middle. "It's good. She loves to turn my bladder into her personal trampoline, so there's that. Philip has officially stopped yelling at my stomach for invading his designated spot, which happens to be my lap. She's not even born and our children are already fighting with each other. It's splendid."

"Where is Philip," he asked with mumbled curiosity as he kissed her neck. "I figured you didn't swat me for cussing, so he must not be in the vicinity."

"Rogers took him to the zoo for the day. They should be back fairly soon though."

"Good," he mouthed. "I missed the rambunctious little thing."

"He's definitely your son. Thor decided to play hide-and-seek with him the other day. I'm almost entirely certain that Thor was crying because he couldn't find Philip and he thought I was going to maim him."

"Yeah," Barton laughed. "Where was he hiding?"

"The air vents above the game room," she informed him. "We should probably make a rule about that. We should make him a perch of his own that's actually safe."

"Can I build him a tree house of sorts," Barton exclaimed excitedly. "Like a loft that has a safety railing but looks like a tree and we can put some of his books and stuff up there."

Natasha laughed and kissed his cheek again. "You might be more excited about it than he is. By build it, I'm assuming you mean get Stark to draw up appropriately plans and have Banner monitor the two of you to keep you from doing anything too crazy."

"Of course," Clint returned automatically. He knew his ideas tended to get a bit wild, especially when Tony was involved. Banner always acted as a calm and rational participant who enjoyed the project as much as the other two but kept them in check.

"I don't see why not then. Boy's his father's son. He would probably like a perch of his own." She paused for a second. "I have a feeling that's something normal parents never say."

"Why would we want to be normal parents? Normal is boring. I would much rather have conversations about a demi-god losing our almost-three-year-old in an AC unit and a crazy billionaire offering to build a bounce castle into one of the unused floors."

"What is a bounce castle," Natasha asked.

"What is a bounce castle," he repeated astounded. "It's only the most fun childhood activity ever. It's a big thing that's filled with air and you can bounce around inside of it."

"So it's a trampoline?"

"It's a bounce house."

"But you bounce on it like a trampoline?"

"Sort of, but you don't bounce on it like you, an all-star gymnast, bounces on it. You bounce on it like a kid who flails around and falls over." She lifted an eyebrow at him. "We'll get one for his third birthday! He can invite some of his friends from day care. Stark already ran intensive background checks of all the parents with kids in attendance, so we can have a party! It can be dinosaur themed," he shouted exuberantly.

"Clint," she asked softly. "Are you turning three, or is Philip turning three?" She fixed him with an undeniably mocking look as she turned around with her hands dramatically on her hips.

"Oh, shut up," he countered stubbornly. "I'm allowed to be excited. Do you realize I'm been sitting in mud for two weeks watching groups of irritating idiots fumble around in circles? There is absolutely nothing exciting about mud, Tasha. It squishes and gets in everything. Everything," he emphasized, as if saying it once just didn't cut it. "There are bugs in the mud that pop up and crawl on your boots as you sink into the puddle of soggy dirt. It's a really unfortunate place to be. I've convinced Fury hates me."

"I know Fury hates you," Natasha corrected. "I bet the muddy hell hole you've been in didn't have showers either. Go; shower, get clean, and I'll finish dinner." She nudged him towards the bathroom.

It would have been a completely normal scene, had someone ignored the luggage tossed by the door packed with a collapsible bow, numerous arrows, and a variety of back up weaponry as well as the very pregnant woman wearing an ankle holster under her yoga pants and a knife tucked into a sheath hidden in her bra.


	9. Chapter 9

Author's Note: Another chapter for my dear readers in less than 24 hours. Let me know what you think!

Disclaimer: I don't own the Avengers or any such Marvel characters; it makes me sad on a daily basis.

It happened more normally this time. Clint wasn't away on a mission, and Rogers didn't frantically scream while simultaneously running in circles. Her contractions started to hit in the middle of dinner one night almost a month after Philip's third birthday. The conversation at the table was fairly normal, par for the course, with Rogers blushing about something or other and Banner and Stark bickering over who got to blow what up next. Pepper tried to corral the two science men with reminders of the city's limit on explosions in Avengers Tower. Philip talked animatedly to Thor about a field trip taken by his day care, and Clint flipped his attention between his son's story, the scientists' argument, and the captain's embarrassment.

"I'm tired of seeing your package every time you un-Hulk," Stark shouted. "Personally, my boat floats in the other ocean. We need to make you pants that stretch accordingly!"

"How does Hulk needing pants correspond to you blowing me up," Banner asked agitatedly. "You just want to play with your new toys and see how quickly the Other Guy can take over and smash you to bits."

"I don't want to be smashed to bits," Stark replied. "It's for your own well-being. We need to make sure the pants don't have any adverse reactions to common field situations."

"Adverse reactions? Stark, they're pants not flammable chemicals! People have been successfully making and wearing pants for centuries without spontaneously combusting! You're not blowing me up, goddamnit."

"Boys," Pepper chided. "Inside voices."

"My teacher says that to me a lot," Philip interjected. "A lot."

"That's because you've learned to speak at a certain volume so your egotistical uncles can hear you over the sounds of their own voices," Pepper informed him. Philip shrugged and went back to explaining how he made bubbles in Central Park with his friends on their field trip.

"So one creates bubbles with a soapy substance," Thor boomed. "Does one use a wand or a weapon to summon the bubbles?"

"You don't summon bubbles," Clint explained. "You blow them."

"Is this like what Tony was referring to the other day? When one performs the act of blowing on a male's pe..." Thor was interrupted when all the adults glared at him as Pepper practically screeched a silencing command. "Is that not an appropriate comment for young Philip to hear? On Asgard, our young are privy to all conversations whether it be in reference to battle or romantic union."

"I hate to interrupt this lesson on countering cultures, but I think I may need to make my way to a hospital," Natasha disrupted. Clint was by her side in three and a half seconds flat, taking her hand and easing her out of the chair.

"Hawkling Number Two is on the way," Stark gleefully shouted. With that the growing brood of superheroes made their way out of Avengers Tower.

•••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

The hospital seemed to know of Natasha's arrival. Most of the young nurses scattered, leaving the halls oddly empty.

"This is what happens when you terrorize hospitals while pregnant," Banner pointed out with a smirk. "See that? See how no one wants to help the crazy pregnant assassin?"

"Don't think I'm too pregnant to maim you," Natasha countered. "I may not be able to see my thighs from up here, but I know they're still there and I know they're still deadly."

"Right this way, ma'am." A male nurse appeared with a wheelchair, which despite her pregnancy Natasha still eyed wearily. The man seemed to be trembling ever so slightly; it looked like he drew the short straw.

"Tasha, get in the wheelchair," Clint commanded gently. "In," he repeated pushing down on her shoulder lightly in a way that would have gotten anyone else severely injured.

"How old are you," Stark interrogated the nurse as they rolled through the hallways. "Where did you get your degree? How long have you been a nurse? Do you have a criminal record? What is your social security number? What day were you born?"

"Tony," Pepper attempted valiantly to keep him from harassing the nurse.

"He won't stop until he has certified background checks on everyone within a three mile radius," Banner interjected. "Last time, he may have caused more emotional trauma than Natasha."

"I resent that," Stark scoffed. "There's no way I can do more damage than her. She's terrifying on a normal day. Pregnant… the woman is like Satan's mistress."

"Mommy, what's a Satan's mistress?" Philip piped up from his spot in Roger's arms.

"Ignore everything Uncle Tony says," Rogers answered, ignoring the young boy's question.

"Again, I resent that," Stark feigned hurt. "No, this cannot be their room. We need a room with a window. Yes, looking at me like I'm crazy isn't going to help. We're still going to need a room with a window. Go find your little computer and relocate us."

"Please," Pepper added for her boyfriend, giving the nurse an apologetic smile.

"Like I said, Stark is responsible for more emotional trauma than Natasha. Check mate. You lose," Banner smirked mockingly.

•••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

Everyone was in the waiting room sans Natasha and Clint, who were finally settled in a room with a window. Tony watched the interaction between his nephew and his girlfriend, and he couldn't help but smile.

"Can you find Waldo, sweetie," Pepper asked Philip, who rested comfortably in her lap with the book across his knees.

"I found the girl that looks like Waldo. See," he pointed out the girl behind the water tower.

"You're right! I didn't see that one. What else do you see?" She ran her fingers through his shaggy hair, resting her chin on his small shoulder.

"There's an elephant. Those don't belong in pools," he laughed as he pointed to the large animal in the drawing. "Unless you're at the circus," Philip amended. "Daddy was in a circus. He said they had a seal too. It clapped and played with a ball. I think a seal would be cool. We should get a pet for the tower."

"I think that's a great idea. What other animals would make good pets? I think we should get a dinosaur."

"We can't get a dinosaur, Auntie Pepper. They're all dead."

"You're too smart for me, kiddo." She tickled him. He laughed and laughed, squirming in her lap. The book dropped to the floor.

"Auntie Pepper. Auntie Pepper," he squealed. "Stoooop," he heaved through his giggles. "It tickles!"

"That's the point, silly goose." Finally, she slowed her actions and the young boy fell against her chest, breathing heavily.

"That was funny. Can we read a story?" When Pepper nodded, he jumped out of her lap to find his backpack. "Oh! I got a ring pop from my teacher. Can I have?" The woman glanced down at her watch, seeing it was well past his bedtime, but she shrugged and nodded. He came bounding back with his book of fairy tales and his ring pop before snuggling into her lap. "I like this one," he declared after flipping through pages of colorful illustrations. "It has a dragon."

"This one it is then," Pepper declared. She opened the package and slipped the lollipop ring on his finger before starting the story. She read in voices fitting to the characters, grumbling when a goblin spoke or pitching her voice high when it was the princess. Philip was hooked, his fingers brushing over the illustrations as she read.

"Marry me."

Pepper almost didn't hear it. Banner, Thor, and Rogers looked at Stark wide-eyed.

"What?"

"Marry me, Pepper. I don't have a ring. I don't really have a plan for this," the billionaire started rambling through words. "But I want this with you. Whatever this is, however it turns out to be, I want it with you. I want all of it with you."

"I have a ring," Philip announced, offering his uncle his Ring Pop. "Here," the little boy announced. He slid off Pepper's lap and handed the lollipop to Tony. "You can have my ring."

Stark grinned widely at his nephew. "Thanks, kid." He ruffled the shaggy sandy blonde hair as he rose from his seat and moved over to Pepper. Kneeling on the speckled linoleum floor of the waiting room, he took her hand. "Pepper Potts, will you marry me?" He presented the Ring Pop sincerely. He looked up at her anxiously. The three other men looked at her too, all smiling happily. Philip was clapping as Banner pulled the young boy into his lap.

"Yes, yes of course," she answered, capturing Tony's face in her hands and kissing him deeply. He slid the slightly sticky Ring Pop onto her finger.

"It's just like in my story, Uncle Bruce! And they live happily ever after," he repeated.

•••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

"We need a name, Clint. We can't call her Baby Girl Barton for the rest of her life," Natasha declared as she cradled the small child in her arms.

"We need a name before Stark comes in here and starts calling her Antonia."

"That name has been on the veto list from Day One."

"Our veto list is crazy long, Tasha." He paused for a second. "What about Barkley?"

"We're naming a child not a dog, Clint. Also, Barkley Barton, really?"

"Yeah," he grimaced. "Yeah, that wouldn't work out too well. Rebecca?"

"Becky Barton."

"Fuck," he grumbled. "Why do I keep doing that? I must have a secret obsession with alliterations."

"Ella or Ellie?"

"Olivia?"

"Ava?"

"Grace?"

"Harper?"

"Talia?"

"As in Natalia? Next," Natasha vetoed.

"Persimmon?"

"Are you on drugs? These are children, Philip and Persimmon Barton. Clint, seriously?"

"The fruit tastes really good," Clint defended.

"What name do you like," Natasha asked the little girl in her arms somewhat desperately.

"What about Amelia Jane?"

"I like it. What do you think, love? Do you like it? Is Amelia Jane your new name?" The baby fixed her eyes on Natasha's and licked her lips.

"Looks like it is Amelia Jane Barton, missy. We have a name," Clint whooped happily. "She's beautiful, Tasha. Miss Amelia, you are absolutely perfect," he cooed as he leaned onto the hospital bed to look at the baby in his wife's arms. "You ready to see the family?"

"Philip first, then the rest of the crazy brood," Natasha agreed. "You ready to meet your big brother?" She paused for a second, looking up at Clint with a wide smile.

"What is it, Tash?"

"I never thought in my life I would say those words. Wow," she murmured completely in awe of how everything turned out.

"But you're happy, right?"

"Yeah, I am. I love you, you know?" He nodded and smiled sincerely at her comment before nearly skipping down the corridor to find the three year old.

•••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

"How is she?" Pepper asked excitedly, the Ring Pop still on her finger.

"She's good. They're both good. Why are you wearing a lollipop?"

"I'm engaged."

"The billionaire asked you to marry him with a piece of candy," he asked, completely baffled. "Seriously?"

"Technically it wasn't even his candy. It was Philip's," Pepper responded with a laugh.

"I am sitting right here," Stark groaned.

"My son shares candy," Clint questioned disbelieving with a laugh. "I can't get him to share his macaroni and cheese, but Stark can get him to share candy. Unbelievable."

"Do we get to meet the baby soon," Rogers asked quietly.

"Yeah, I was going to take Philip in to meet her first, and then you are welcome to pile in." The archer went over and crouched down next to the chairs that were shoved together to create a makeshift bed for the small child. "Hey buddy," he spoke softly, ruffling his son's hair.

"Daddy," Philip mumbled, burying his face in his blanket.

"You want to go see Mommy and meet your baby sister?"

"Sleep," he muttered.

"Definitely Romanov's kid with that one," Stark laughed.

"Come on, kiddo," Clint encouraged. "I know Mommy really wants to see you."

"Mommy."

"Yeah, Mommy," he confirmed. "Come on." He scooped Philip into his arms and walked back towards the hospital room. "We're going to go meet your baby sister."

"And see Mommy." Philip emphasized what he thought was the most important factor to being woken up so early in the morning. When they walked through the door, Clint placed the young boy on the edge of the hospital bed. "Mommy," he greeted sleepily.

"Hey, love. Come here. I want you to meet someone." She ushered him over with her free hand. He crawled carefully over the bed and snuggled into her side, opposite the bundle of blankets. She tilted Amelia towards Philip, so the little boy could see the baby's face. "This is your baby sister, Philip. Her name is Amelia Jane. Can you say hi?"

"Hi, baby. That's Mommy and that's Daddy. They're mine, but I guess I can share. Mommy, I shared my ring with Uncle Tony and he gave it to Auntie Pepper," he told her excitedly. She smiled fondly at him, kissing his forehead, before shooting a questioning look at Clint.

"Engaged," he responded with a smirk. "With our son's Ring Pop." Natasha laughed happily. "Smile," Clint requested as he took a picture with his phone. "I'll go get the rest of the crazy crew."

•••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

Amelia was a year old when Pepper and Tony finally got married. The ceremony was on the white sand beach of an island Natasha didn't even think was on a map. Philip walked the rings down the aisle in a black suit, bowtie, and converses. It was a quiet- no ringing phone about Stark Industry, no Doom-bots, no explosions, and especially no Fury. It was perfect.

Stark donned his Iron Man suit and swirled Pepper into the air over the ocean as their first dance before darting off to another unknown island for their honeymoon.

Philip and Clint, both still in their suits, kicked off their shoes and ran into the waves. Natasha lounged on the ground, Amelia within arms reach playing in the sand. Thor stripped to his boxers and waded into the water as well. Banner and Rogers ran back to their rooms to get swim trunks.

"Throw me, Daddy!" Philip squealed as he tried to avoid one of the waves. Clint launched his son off his shoulders over and over again.

"Alright, I need a breather, kiddo. Ask Uncle Steve or Thor to throw you if you still want to do that. I'm going to go collapse on the sand," Clint shuffled through the waves back to Natasha, where he promptly fell to the ground. Amelia crawled her way over to him and squished his face in her small hands. "Hey sweetie. Are you having fun?" He paused to look up at her. She took a fistful of sand and put it on his forehead. "Yes, thank you. I love the sand."

"I hear it's a good exfoliating element," Natasha laughed.

"Great, our one year old is already beauty product conscious."

"If you insist on playing catch with my son," Natasha bellowed. "You had better be damn sure he doesn't fall." Clint propped himself up to see Philip flailing happily in the air between Rogers and Thor. "I really will maim you."

"Natasha, I think the whole world knows that you have no fear in injuring the person that dares touch either of your children," Banner teased as he flopped in the sand.

"It doesn't hurt to remind them," she countered with a smirk. "Hey there, little one," Natasha greeted as Amelia crawled over to her. She lifted her daughter in the air above her head, tossing her carefully and smiling as the baby giggled. Amelia tucked her head into Natasha's chest and curled into her mother. "I think it's getting close to your bedtime," she whispered to the young child.

"I'll take her," Clint offered. As he stood, his water-logged suit dripped onto the sand around him. "Come on, sweetie. Let's go night-night. Night, Bruce. See you in the room, Tash."

Around them the sun was setting, casting a pinkish tint over the horizon. Philip clung tightly to Roger's neck as they played a seemingly endless game of tag with Thor, who occasionally kicked water back at them as they ran along the shore.

When the last slivers of the sun were nearly hidden by the blanketing darkness of night, the three guys stumbled back to the sand tiredly. "You wore me out, son," Captain declared as he carefully lowered the boy to the sand. Philip promptly fell onto Natasha, his small body covering her with his head resting on her shoulder.

"I'm tired, Mommy."

"I bet, bud." She ignored the water from his clothing that seeped through her own dress. She placed a soothing hand on his back, drawing her hand in wide circles as she had done to lull him to sleep since he was a baby. "Did you have fun playing in the water?" He rubbed one of his eyes with the back of his palm as he nodded. "You ready to go back to the room?" He nodded again. "What do you say to your uncles?"

"Вы для играть с мной."

"In English, мой сынок?" Natasha prompted, whispering into his ear.

"Thank you for playing with me," he translated his previous statement.

The three men left on the beach wished the mother and son sweet dreams as Natasha pulled herself off the ground, holding Philip against her chest. His arms looped around her neck instinctively as he rested his head at the juncture of her neck and shoulder.

"Мама может мы прочитала рассказ?" Philip mumbled into her neck.

"Yes, love, we can read a story." She kissed his forehead. She laughed quietly, betting anything that the little boy would be dead asleep by the time they got back to the room. "Я тебя люблю." Natasha told Philip she loved him as she rocked him gently.

When she got the door to the room open, she smiled at the sight of Clint fast asleep on the couch with Amelia resting in the crook of his arm. Natasha quietly and efficiently undressed Philip, throwing his wet suit into the bathroom behind her. She dried him off gently before putting him in his pajamas. She tucked him in to the rollaway bed in the corner. Pulling the blankets up around his little boy, she kissed his forehead, whispering again how much she loved him.

Then she untangled Amelia from Clint's arms, cradling her as she walked over to the crib. Natasha kissed her daughter on the cheek, sang a soft Russian lullaby out of habit, and again whispered her love to the small child before laying Amelia in the crib. Padding softly into the bedroom, she changed out of her damp, sandy dress and into pajamas before going over to Clint's prone body.

"Hey, Clint," she spoke softly, caressing his face and feeling the slight stubble rough against her palm. "Let's go to bed."

"Tasha," he mumbled sleepily.

"They say Philip gets his inability to wake up from me, but little did they know he's all you."

"Not true," he countered, his eyes still closed. "He smirks just like you. He makes all your same facial expressions, especially the look he gives me when he thinks I'm being an idiot. He's got a lot of you. He just has my boyish charm and good looks."

"We're not talking about your charm and looks again," Natasha laughed. "Come on, carnie. Bed." She tugged his arm, pulling him into a seated position.

"I was so comfy," he complained as he shuffled behind her.

"We're not going to teach our children that it's normal to sleep on couches. They've got enough crazy to counteract. We're going to make the little things as normal as possible, which means you, sir, are going to sleep in a bed. Philip already calls our bed a nest. He's convinced your perches are actually nests. He asked me the other day, if you sit with a bunch of sticks in trees like the birds in the park."

"Smart kid. Night, Tasha. Love you," he mumbled into the pillow as he fell haphazardly on the bed. She shook her head humorously, before sliding under the covers.

•••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

Like Natasha, Philip moved through the tower almost silently. His footsteps didn't seem to make a sound unless he wanted them to. Even when he ran through the halls, which was frequently, his feet seemed to hit the ground noiselessly. That was how he ended up in Tony's lab. The AI was focused on the calculations for the experiment Stark and Banner were performing.

The two were designing a more efficient system for some of Iron Man's one-time usage clip-on attachments. Lasers and flammable objects scattered through the lab. Stark shot different versions of projectiles at a target painted on the far wall.

They were entirely focused on the experiments at hand, completely ignorant to anything besides the effect of each projectile against the target including the four year old watching quietly from just inside the door way.

"Whatcha doin'?" His little voice startled the two men, Banner jumped as Tony fumbled with his remote.

"Fuck! Get down," Stark shouted as he realized what button he depressed when he manhandled the remote.

The force of the explosion shook the tower. Tony ended up on the opposite side of the lab, his head knocked painfully against one of the cabinets containing a retired Iron Man suit. Dazed, he rubbed the back of his head and took in the clouds of dust and dry wall filling the lab.

"Tony!" Pepper's voice could be heard chastising him through the PA system. "We just fixed the lab from the last combustion!"

"Hi Hulk," Philip waved happily as the large green beast unwrapped himself from the young boy.

"You Hulk-ed out in my lab," Tony shrieked. Hulk growled.

"Was that Philip's voice," Pepper screeched. "You blew up the lab with your nephew in it. Are you out of your mind, Anthony Stark?"

Within moments, Natasha and Pepper were standing in the midst of the wreckage. Hulk shuffled through the debris and offered his open palms to the assassin. Philip sat happily, completely unharmed, in the giant's hands.

"Hi Mommy." He reached out his arms, and she pulled him onto her hip.

"What do you say to Hulk?"

"Thank you for not letting me explode."

"Did you sneak up on the boys while they were in the lab," she asked. He nodded guiltily. "What have we said about that?"

"That I'm not supposed to do it because people get jumpy and bad things happen," Philip sighed. "I just wanted to say hi, Mommy."

"I know, love, but you've got to be careful, okay? Can you apologize to Uncle Tony and Uncle Bruce?" Natasha put him on the ground and turned him to face the scientists, one still rubbing his head and the other having changed back to human form.

"I'm sorry I broke your lab." He offered each of his uncles a hug before returning solemnly to Natasha's side.

"It's okay, little man. I would have blown it up eventually on my own," Stark comforted.

"Isn't that the truth," Pepper grumbled. "I'll call the clean-up crew and the construction company."

"Come on, love. Let's get out of the way, so they can work on fixing the lab." Natasha hefted him onto her hip again, offered an apologetic smile, before returning to their suite where Amelia was still napping away.


	10. Chapter 10

Author's Note: Hello again! I appreciate all the reviews and ideas! I incorporated a few in this chapters from discordchick, Abandon-Morality, OwlMay, and demonpixie1. CrazyDC and Addicted-To-Sugar-Quills, I'm going to get your ideas included in future chapters when the kids are a bit older, but don't worry! I will get them in there and you'll get a shout-out in the corresponding chapters as well. I love to hear what you all think, so keep the reviews coming! Please enjoy! Also, all mistakes are my own.

Disclaimer: I don't own the Avengers or any such Marvel characters; it makes me sad on a daily basis.

"Morning sickness really is just peachy, isn't it?" Pepper grumbled as she made her way slowly, very slowly, into the communal kitchen. Natasha laughed and hid her smile behind her extra large mug of coffee. "I'm convinced it was a male who dictated it to be morning sickness because I feel sick 24/7. It's smells and movement and really anything makes me feel the urge to curl into a ball on the floor." The assassin nodded regretfully. She had been there and done that… twice, and never again, no thank you. Her lady parts were closed for business, which she had explicitly told Clint during Amelia's 22-hour labor. "And this no coffee thing," Pepper continued to grumble, "that is just so damn stupid. I can't sleep and I can't have coffee. What am I supposed to? Be completely useless for 9 months?"

"It gets better," Natasha promised.

"It does?" Pepper's question dripped with hopefulness.

"Yeah, I hear it gets better when the child goes to college," the assassin completely deadpanned.

"Not funny."

"A little funny."

"Where are your minions of terror?"

"The boys took them for the day. I deemed today 'Leave Me the Hell Alone or Die Painfully' day," Natasha replied. "All of the guys are gone; the kids are running circles around them, I'm sure. Fury thinks I'm escorting you to China for a three-day business trip as Natalie Rushman. I get to sit and enjoy my coffee in silence without someone pulling on my pants to go to the bathroom or screaming my name for attention or trying to break up the latest squabble."

"I honestly can't tell which of those descriptions apply to your children or your teammates. I'm almost possible the bathroom one applies solely to your children. The screaming for attention and the refereeing different fights could easily be one or the other."

"Such is life."

"What are your plans for your 'Leave Me the Hell Alone or Die Painfully' Day?"

"I'm going to sit on the couch and read a book. Actually read a book," she amended. "Not just read the same sentence fifteen times because the second I look even remotely relaxed, people come from everywhere and demand I accomplish things like locating lost blankets and toys or shooting a target because everyone else is incompetent. I will finish a book, and pity the person who ruins my day today."

Pepper laughed and nodded knowingly. She excused herself to her office to work on a few press releases for Stark Industry.

•••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

"YOU LOST THEM," Rogers shrieked. "HOW DID YOU LOSE THEM?"

"You," Stark responded. "I didn't lose them. We're all responsible!"

"Obviously, you did. They're gone," Rogers panicked.

"Okay, this clearly isn't a good way to find them," Banner insisted. He turned in a slow circle surveying the area.

"There's three of us and two of them. How did you screw this up," Rogers continued to rant.

"It's a five-year-old and a two-year-old. How far could they have gotten?"

"That's a very bad question to ask. They're Romanov's kids! They move without being seen or heard. They even manage to throw off JARVIS!"

"We should put chips in them, so we can always have a GPS trace on them."

"Chips into children? I know science isn't my thing," Rogers mumbled, clearly confused. "But potato chips into children doesn't seem to be a good idea."

"Not potato chips, Captain," Stark shook his head irritated. "Computer chips." The man started explaining the circuitry involved; Captain just stared at him, getting more and more confused by the second.

"Stark, is now really the most appropriate time to delve into the topic of circuitry and GPS? We lost the children of two of the most dangerous assassins in the world. Do you know what that makes us," Banner asked. "Do you?"

"Idiots," Rogers responded to the proposed question.

"No, Cap. It makes us dead meat. If we can't find them before Natasha gets wind of it, there will be no place we can hide to escape her wrath."

"We'll split up. Hopefully they stuck together. Banner, you check the first two floors. I'll check the third and fourth floors. Stark, go talk to security and see if we can spot them on a security feed- coming, going, anything. I don't think Philip would leave the store, but you never know, especially if Amelia isn't with him."

"Why did we think bringing them to the largest toy store in New York was a smart idea? It's a sea of children and people and hiding places," Stark grumbled.

"This was your idea, you dumb shit," Banner countered. "I wanted to take them to the science museum."

"And my vote was for the Central Park Zoo," Rogers added. "So technically, this is your fault. It's always your fault."

"Let's just go find them. Keep in touch with your phones. We really should permanently wear comm links at this rate," Stark bumbled as he retreated to find the security desk. A very large man sat squished into a small booth looking uninterestedly at a screen flickering over dozens of cameras. "I need to see your feeds. My nephew and niece are lost somewhere in the store," Stark informed the bored security guard.

"The security feeds are not available to the public. I will alert the general manager on duty of your lost child," the guard responded, as if on autopilot.

"Lost children," Stark corrected. "Children- two of them."

"The security feeds are not available to the public. I will alert the general manger on duty of your lost children."

"Are you serious?" Stark fumed, clearly irked by the unconcerned attitude of the so-called security guard. "Hey, Chubs. Look." He turned the guards chair to face him. "I am Tony Stark of Stark Industries. Get me the manager now. I want your on-site security looking for my missing niece and nephew. As I own 51% of the stock of this company, I'm technically your boss. See how that works? Now, I know you have protocols in tact for missing children, as toy stores are typically hot spots for predators, so hop to it. Now," Stark seethed.

Wide-eyed, the guard flailed into action. He flapped around looking for a list of codes to utilize in certain situations. Finding the one he needed, he called 'Red Alert Alpha' into the walkie-talkie. "Thank you," Stark said, less than impressed with the guard himself. "What is the definition for Red Alert Alpha?"

"A child or children of an influential individual have gone missing in the store," the guard read off the list.

"Good man. My nephew is five years old and my niece is two," he informed the manager, who seemingly appeared out of nowhere. "My teammates are searching through the floors for them now, but we could use the help."

"Teammates," the manager asked. He paused and tipped his head. "Tony Stark as in Iron Man Tony Stark? The Avengers Tony Stark?"

"The one and only." He almost smirked when the manager fumbled the clipboard in his hands before calling for a lockdown of the store- no in or out. Clearly the man knew what was good for his career and knew that letting a possible kidnapper walk out of the store with Iron Man's niece or nephew would destroy any chance of a successful future. Stark was close to saying that Philip had a tendency to walk off when something caught his eye, but he figured the extra precautions didn't hurt.

It was a furious twenty minutes of searching in every display on every floor. Amelia was the easiest to find. The little girl, a perfect replica of Natasha, was watching the commotion from inside a life-size dollhouse. The cottage was child-sized with a little kitchen and table set. Its windows looked out on to a world of dolls where parents and their children shuffled through hundreds of types of dolls and thousands of accessories. Rogers saw her bright red hair through the windows and sighed in relief. He knocked on the closed door of the dollhouse.

"Miss Amelia, can I join your tea party," he asked politely. She opened the door for him and smiled widely. "You scared us, missy. You can't just run off like that. You know better than that."

"Sorry," she mumbled sheepishly.

"Do you know where Philip is," Rogers questioned hopefully. She shook her head, her little red curls swaying. "Well, let's go find him. Shall we?" He offered her his hand. Once away from the little house, she tugged on his pant leg.

"Up, Cap'an," she asked with a wide smile. He grinned and lifted her onto his shoulders, her multi-colored tutu haloing his face. Holding onto her ankles with one hand, he pulled out his cell to text Banner and Stark.

One of the guards scouring the floors noticed Philip, sitting at the top of one of the tallest displays in the building. The young boy could have reached his hands up and grazed the ceiling if he so wished. The guard called out and tried to coax him down, but Philip shook his head vehemently. Having two assassins as parents and growing up in a world of superheroes where everyone seemed to have a laundry list of enemies, both Barton children were taught about strangers. Only trust people you know seemed to be the clear message Philip had taken from all those lessons. He didn't know the guard, and thus, refused to climb down.

Banner found the guard a few minutes after the guard found the young boy. "Hey Philip," he waved from the ground. "Come on down."

Philip looked around and tried to remember how he had climbed up in the first place. He grimaced. "I think I'm stuck, Uncle Bruce."

"That's okay, bud. Jump like you learned. I'll catch you." The boy smiled and nodded. He placed his feet flat against the vertical wall of the display and pushed himself off and away from the perch. Bruce caught him easily and pulled him into a hug. "Thanks," he said to the guard before turning to return to the security desk. When he was away from prying ears, he scolded the young boy. "It's very dangerous for you to run off like that. Remember the rules? You always have to tell an adult where you're going before you go. You scared us."

"I'm sorry," he muttered. "I won't do it again. I'll try to remember the rule," he promised.

Rogers again sighed in relief when he spotted Banner and Philip. Stark pulled out his checkbook, scribbled down a number with a good handful of zeros and his signature, and handed the check to the manager. "Thank you for your help. I hope this covers any loss of sales from the lock down," he said professionally. The manager blanched at the amount on the check, but nodded vigorously and thanked Stark.

•••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

Natasha was away on a mission projected to be a weeklong. Clint stayed in New York working on consultations and training for new recruits. Three days into the mission, both kids came home from school with a bug. Clint groaned as he visualized what the next few days would entail. He envisioned Amelia cuddled in his lap, crying, with Philip on the floor next to him, crying and angry that Amelia was in Clint's lap. He bet he would be shedding more than a few tears in frustration as well. While both kids were usually pretty good, when they were sick, it was madness. Philip refused to share 'his mommy and daddy' with Amelia, who insisted on always being held. Natasha was the only one who could comfort either child during any bout of illness. Clint dropped his head dramatically to the granite countertop as he realized just how loud and frustrating the next week would be.

The first day wasn't too bad. Whatever sickness had attacked the immune systems of the Barton children hadn't hit to its full extent. They were tired and uncomfortable, but nothing Clint couldn't handle.

The second day, the flu hit hard. Sick children who were extremely tired, nauseous with fever and coughing, and only wanted their mother, who was in another country assassinating a drug lord, made Clint's day job a whole lot more complicated.

The third day, Philip went so far as to push Amelia out of Clint's lap. The five year old was extremely territorial when he was sick; sharing his daddy just wasn't going to happen. After all, he was there first, he declared vehemently before falling into a coughing fit. Amelia, of course feisty like both of her parents, didn't take well to being shoved to the ground at all. Immediately she threw out a leg to kick Philip before the little boy could climb into her recently vacated spot.

"MY DADDY," Philip screamed.

"No! MINE," Amelia countered.

"He was my daddy first! Get your own daddy!"

Clint could feel his eardrums quaking. Both of his children had lungs that helped them wail louder than he thought physically possible. He had been in firefights that didn't make as much noise and commotion as his two children when they got in one of their moods. Switching between scolding and comforting at a frantic speed, the time passed very slowly, and he prayed to every god he could think of that Natasha finished her mission early.

Finally, he managed to get Amelia calm enough to sleep, and he tucked her into the crib. Philip, on the other hand, crawled into his lap and cried.

"I want Mommy," he sobbed. "Mommy," he wailed in between hiccups. The poor boy's fever seemed to stay right around 100 degrees, and his throat was sore from crying, coughing, and vomiting. Clint did all he could- rocking his son, singing him lullabies, and reading stories. Nothing worked, and the little boy continued to cry for his mommy.

It was nearly three AM when Natasha stumbled through the door, exhaustedly. She could feel her ribs protesting each breath. Her ankle, though tightly wrapped, threatened to give under each step. The bruises scattering her body pulsed and demanded attention with each movement. She didn't want to think about the lacerations on her torso, causing blood to smear between her tactical suit and her skin. She wanted to sleep.

Walking in and seeing Clint in the large armchair overlooking the city with a crying Philip in his lap immediately banished any thoughts of sleep. She could faintly hear the little boy crying for her. She put her bags down quietly, unloading her weapons onto the kitchen counter, before walking over to the two. Clint's head swiveled around in surprise when he felt Philip being lifted out of his lap. He sighed in relief seeing his wife. Philip clung to her and started sobbing again.

"Mommy," he spoke between heaving in breaths. She could feel his small body shake in her arms. She could feel his heated skin against her neck. She spoke soothingly to him in Russian, telling him that she was right there, that she loved him, and that everything was okay. His legs wrapped around her torso, and she barely hid the grimace as his heels pressed into a cluster of bruises covering her left side. With the added weight, her ankle protested violently and seriously threatened to give out, so Natasha walked over to the couch.

When his sobs slowly dissolved to sniffles, she kissed his forehead, offering him comfort while gauging his temperature. She rocked him slowly, occasionally whispering things in Russian or English, until he was fast asleep in her arms. Clint looked on in awe and disbelief.

"I've been doing that for the last five hours." She smiled sadly and offered a nod. "They both have the flu," Clint informed her. She grimaced, knowing exactly how his last few days had been. "They only want you when they're sick." She nodded, knowing how it was. "I think it's almost out of Amelia's system. Philip will probably have it at least another 24 hours unless his fever breaks sooner. Did you stop at base?" She shook her head no. "Medical," he asked, though he knew her answer. She shook her head again. "Tasha," he sighed. "How bad is it?" She shrugged and didn't offer any further explanation.

Clint watched her closely, gauging her injuries from almost imperceptible tells in her body language. Noting that Philip was fast asleep, she stood gingerly from the couch and moved to take him back to his bedroom. Clint walked into the master bathroom and grabbed the first aid kit (read: large rolling medicine cabinet) before dragging it into the bedroom. When she shuffled into their room, she glared at the cabinet before ignoring it and walking into the closet.

"Tasha, come on. The sooner we patch you up, the sooner you can go to bed."

"Don't need it," she countered exhaustedly. She winced as she unzipped the cat suit and peeled it from her body. She made a mental reminder to put civilian clothes in her bag. When she called for an extraction, she dug through the duffel and found nothing but her tactical suit. Folding herself into the skintight uniform was painful, and as she pulled it off, she saw all the visual evidence of why it had been so painful in the first place. Maybe she did need it, the logical part of her brain argued.

"Don't need it," Clint asked disbelieving. His voice was right behind her in the doorway of the closet, and she silently groaned. "Jesus, Tasha," he whispered as he took in the injuries on her back as she continued to lower the suit. She ran through her options quickly in her head. He was going to look over her wounds regardless, so she turned towards him with a neutral expression. He barely suppressed the grimace at seeing her front on. "Come on," he encouraged.

Clint worked efficiently and quickly, expertly cleaning each laceration and rewrapping her ankle. He made a mental note to keep an eye on some of the darkest bruises. He pressed a gentle kiss to her shoulder when he was done and moved from behind her to grab a pair of pajamas. Although she didn't need the assistance, he helped her into the outfit. She allowed it because she knew it made him feel better. He pulled back the sheets of the bed and ushered her under the covers. The moment her head hit the pillow the baby monitor on her bedside table came to life with the clear sounds of Amelia crying for her mommy. Natasha squeezed her eyes shut before heaving herself back into a sitting position.

"You sure," Clint asked, a tender hand reaching out to catch her wrist. "I can get her. You need to sleep, Tasha."

"It's okay. Go to bed," she responded before soundlessly padding down the hall to the nursery.

She watched the sun come up, and with it came a particularly grumpy mood for the assassin. Amelia slept in her lap, curled into her left side, when Philip stomped out of his room complaining of a stomachache. He furrowed his brow as if he was about to voice his irritation with Amelia's presence. One look from Natasha silenced any comment he might have made. She ushered him over with her right hand, and he snuggled into her right side, begrudgingly sharing with Amelia.

"I don't feel good, Mommy."

"I know, love. I'm sorry."

"Make it go away," he begged.

"I wish it worked like that, but you'll feel better soon."

"I want to feel better now." She kissed his forehead. She knew that feeling all too well.

It was 7 AM when she tucked Philip into a makeshift bed on the couch and returned Amelia to her crib. She grimaced and groaned aloud at the clock. She shuffled into the communal kitchen. Her report on the mission was due before 10AM.

"JARVIS, coffee please," she grumbled. "Lots of coffee and keep it coming."

Natasha took a moment to breathe. She dropped her head gracelessly to the counter before forcing herself to sit up straight. She violently stabbed the power button on her laptop. She was two paragraphs into her report when Stark traipsed in.

"You look delightful this morning, Spidey," he greeted.

"Die."

"Oh, with a bubbly attitude to match. What got your panties in a twist?"

"Die violently," she countered without looking up from her computer.

"I'm disappointed, Romanov. Usually you had a creative spin to your death threats. You're losing your touch." She lifted her gaze to meet his. Stark visibly swallowed when he realized he was looking at the Black Widow's threatening eyes as opposed to Natasha's somewhat-less menacing glare. He fled.

Banner was the next to come in. He looked at her, analyzed her posture, and noted the dark circles under her eyes and the baggy pajamas. He gave her a sad smile and offered a platitude. "Let me know if I can do anything to help." She curtly nodded before he too fled.

Rogers and Thor came in together from the gym, and one look at Natasha, both men turned on their heels to find coffee elsewhere.

"Another coffee, JARVIS," she grumbled. Her report was almost done. As she waited for her drink, she calculated how many hours it had been since she slept. Her frown deepened at the answer. She didn't envision sleep anytime soon, and damn that made her quite unhappy.

It was 9:58 when she submitted her report to Fury. She slammed the lid of the laptop and stalked back to their suite. Amelia was dancing in the middle of the living room listening to some wordless hip-hop song. Natasha smiled because at least the little girl was feeling better. Philip buried himself beneath blankets on the couch, his face illuminated by the glow of his GameBoy system. Clint sat in his office, working on one consultation or another, with the door wide open to keep an eye on the kids. She shuffled silently to the bedroom where she promptly collapsed on her bed and covered her face with numerous pillows.

•••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

"Tony," Pepper called as she waddled through the garage.

"Yes dear?"

"We are going to need to double up on a lot of things," she replied. Tony's coffee cup clattered to the counter. "Two cribs, a double stroller, and so on," Pepper elaborated.

"Two," Tony stuttered. "Two," he repeated. He mouthed the word over and over again as if repeating it would some how change its meaning. "Two."

"Yeah, do that for about an hour and a half, and you'll be where I am now."

"Okay. Two, well that's … That's good," he breathed. "That's doable. We can handle two. We can do that," he voiced, though his assurance was weak.

"As long as they both aren't like me, we should be fine," he concluded after a long pause.

"And if they are," Pepper asked.

"If they are, we're going to have our hands full," Stark agreed with a self-deprecating laugh. "We are going to have our hands very full." Pepper nodded vigorously as she leaned into his embrace.


	11. Chapter 11

Author's Note: Ideas for this chapter come from discordchick, IaMcHrIsSi, and CrazyDC. Also, I reuploaded chapter 10 because an anonymous reviewer pointed out a word usage mistake. To that person, thank you! I appreciate the heads up and got it changed. Same rules apply as before; please let me know what you think of the chapter! I need ideas!

Disclaimer: I don't own the Avengers or any such Marvel characters; it makes me sad on a daily basis.

"Uncle Steve," Philip called as he ran into the communal living room. "Uncle Steve, I have a question!"

"Yeah," the captain replied. "What's your question, son?" He looked up from his lap, where Amelia, again decked out in a tutu, was coloring. Rogers offered her a green crayon, which she accepted happily. Her red curls were wild around her face and covered the edges of her coloring book as she hunched over the pages. "Want to color with us?" Philip shrugged and climbed into the chair next to Steve. He reached out to grab some blank paper and Amelia pushed some of the crayons towards him with a smile.

"Thank you," he said as he grabbed a red crayon. "So my question," Philip started seriously. "Daddy says Auntie Pepper and Uncle Tony are gonna have babies."

"Yes, sir," Rogers confirmed. "You're going to have two new cousins."

"Well how do they get the babies? Murphy says they come from a bird and a bee, but that doesn't make sense. I told him he was stupid cause that's not how it happens."

Steve coughed as he choked on air. He focused on one of Amelia's curls as he tried valiantly to come up with answer.

"Your face matches my crayon, Uncle Steve," Philip laughed.

"Hmm, yeah," Rogers grumbled. "Yeah, it probably does." He pulled at the neck of his shirt, trying to give him a little more room to breathe. "That's a very pretty drawing, Amelia," he complimented, still trying to buy time to come up with an answer.

"Murphy's not right, is he? Because it's so annoying when he's right; I really don't want him to be right," Philip confided seriously.

"I… um… well... Who's Murphy?"

"Murphy's my friend from school. Is he right?"

"What did Mommy and Daddy tell you when Amelia was born?"

"I don't know. I was little, member?"

"You weren't that little," Steve grumbled.

"I was too! I was little like Amelia!"

"Not little," she growled.

"Are too," Philip countered as he stuck his tongue out. "You're a baby!"

"Am not, Philip!"

"Are too!"

"Enough," Rogers objected. "Why don't you ask Mommy or Daddy about babies?"

"And then Anna said that her mommy and daddy had a baby because they dance together in bed. I told her that you can't dance in bed, that you dance on the floor."

Steve turned bright red, and the blush on his cheeks continued to brighten as Philip regaled him with stories of what kindergarteners thought of pregnancy.

"I don't care if Anna is right; she not as annoying as Murphy. But Murphy can't be right."

"Do you want to watch Scooby Doo?" Steve tried desperately to distract the five-year-old from the current train of thought.

"Dora," Amelia decided. "No more Scooby Doo."

"Only babies watch Dora. I'm not watching Dora," Philip declared.

Steve sighed in relief as the two started arguing about TV shows to watch, which effectively derailed the conversation about the birds and the bees.

••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

"Clint, where are you going?" Natasha shouted through the suite.

"What do you mean 'where am I going'? I'm going to work. It's a three day mission in Saudi Arabia."

"No."

"No?"

"No," she repeated as she finally walked into the room to stand across from him. He continued to load his duffel bag.

"Why no?"

"Amelia's dance recital."

"Fuck," he groaned. "That's when?"

"Tonight," Natasha informed him with a grimace. "You promised her you would be there. She's been swirling in circles for weeks."

"Fuck."

"Fix it," she grumbled as she left him alone.

"Damnit." Clint sat on the carpeted ground of the closet and leaned against the drawers. He pulled out his cell and pushed the sixth speed dial. "Hill," he groaned. "I have to decline the mission."

"The mission you're supposed to leave on in 95 minutes?"

"Yeah that one."

"Why?"

"My daughter has a dance recital."

"Oh this'll be good. Let me put you through to Fury."

"No, Hill. No, no, no…" Clint chanted as he knocked his head backwards against the closed drawers.

"Agent Barton," the loud gruff voice greeted.

"Director."

"Yes?"

"I need to postpone my mission."

"Why? Are you deathly ill?"

"No, not in so many words," Clint sighed.

"Then why the hell am I supposed to postpone a mission that you agreed to?"

"Amelia's dance recital is tonight, and I promised her I would go."

"You promised a two year old you would go to a dance recital," Fury repeated. "A two year old and a dance recital? Are you fucking kidding me, Barton? You're supposed to be the best marksman in the world. I'm supposed to reschedule a multi-million dollar mission for a dance recital. She's two! It's not a dance recital! It's a bunch of midgets in tutus uncoordinatedly dancing in circles!"

"With all due respect, sir, one of those so-called midgets is my daughter, and I can't miss her dance recital. If you don't want to postpone the mission, get someone else to do it." Clint hung up the phone and allowed himself a total of five seconds to wonder just how far he could push Fury before he lost his job.

••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••"Don't you look pretty, Miss Amelia," Banner complimented. She smiled up at him, her red curls offset by a bow that matched her leotard and tutu.

"Are you excited for your recital," Rogers questioned. While he didn't entirely understand the concept of putting two-year-olds in a dance class and having them perform, if it meant supporting his niece, he was there. She nodded slightly, but clung to Natasha's leg. "I think you're going to be great," he confided when he dropped to his knee to be eye-level with Amelia.

"Where's Daddy," Amelia asked with a hopeful smile. Her smaller green eyes looked up to find her mother's eyes. "And Philip?"

"They'll be here," Natasha promised. She placed a comforting hand on her daughter's head.

"Up Mommy," the little girl requested as she put her arms in the air. "Please," she added quickly. Natasha smiled and swung her daughter smoothly onto her hip. "Auntie Pepper and Uncle Tony," she asked.

"They're," the agent paused, looking around. "They're here somewhere." An older woman appeared and requested all the dancers behind stage. "That's your cue, Amelia. You ready?" The redheaded child looked nervous. "Мед, you don't have to go on stage if you don't want to. It's okay to be scared. Dancing is about having fun."

"I like dancing," Amelia mumbled.

"Do you want to go dance with your friends?" Amelia nodded, and Natasha gave her a reassuring smile. She kissed her daughter's forehead before pointing to the first row of seats. "We'll be sitting right there. All of us will be watching you, just like at home when you dance in the living room. Okay?"

"Okay, Mommy."

"That's my girl. Go have fun!" Amelia skipped off to her teacher, who was standing patiently by the curtain. Natasha grinned and waved before turning back to her two teammates. "What," she asked when she saw the look on their faces.

"Nothing." "Not a damn thing," Steve and Banner replied respectively, shaking their heads. Natasha rolled her eyes and led the way to the seats reserved. Tony and Pepper sidled in to the other open seats, leaving an open seat on Natasha's left.

"Where's Clint," Pepper asked as she leaned over to whisper into her friend's ear.

"Have no idea," Natasha responded. "But I'll kill him if he misses this after he promised her he would be here."

"I'm sure he's just running late. Philip is with him?"

"Yeah, Philip was on a play date, though I don't understand why we have to call them play dates. Can't we just say the kids are playing together or something like that? Play date is such a strange term." Pepper laughed with a shrug. "How was your appointment," Natasha asked, gesturing towards Pepper's growing belly.

"Good. Really good. My OB-gyn says they're two girls." Pepper's smile wore a cheek-splitting smile.

"That's fantastic! Congratulations," Natasha grinned. "Just wait until they all start dating, and Clint pierces Amelia's first boyfriend with an arrow while Tony pummels their first boyfriends before dropping them off a large cliff."

"Our poor children," Pepper commiserated with a smile. "Then take into consideration Rogers, the super soldier, Thor, the demi-god with his lightening, Banner, and the Other Guy. Oh the teenage years should just be splendid. I simply can't wait."

"I'm going to start stocking up on aspirin now."

"Stark Industries may need to purchase a company that makes such medication; it might actually be more economically friendly," Pepper said with a laugh. "Oh there's Clint." She nodded towards the entrance and waved a hand at the archer.

"Sorry, we're late. We stopped to get flowers."

"Hi Mommy! It was my idea! Daddy said I can give them to 'Melia when she finishes her dance."

"Isn't that sweet," Pepper cooed. "Look Tony, the boy has better manners than you do!" Stark barely listened as he was knee-deep in a discussion about thermodynamics with Banner. Rogers sat between them clearly baffled and out of place.

"Can I have hug," Natasha asked her oldest child. He nodded and grinned before twining his arms around her neck. She pulled him into her lap and kissed his cheek. "How was Murphy's house?"

"It was fun. We played Legos and jumped on the trampoline. I can do a flip now!"

"Swell," Natasha chuckled. "Only with adult supervision," she reminded him. He nodded and snuggled into her chest.

"Oh! And Murphy has a Nerf bow and arrow thing! He really sucks. He can't even hit the door. He was holding the bow the wrong way and everything. He hit the ceiling once. He sucks."

"I taught my child well," Clint boasted happily. "Maybe we start giving him real arrows," he mused to himself in a hushed whisper. Natasha fixed him with a dangerous glare.

"What'd you do in school?"

"We played Bingo! Murphy got in trouble cause he didn't win Bingo and he started crying. He was a spoys-spore."

"A what," Clint asked.

"A spoys-spore. That's what my teacher said. She said when you cry because you lose, you're a spoys-spore. You're supposed to be happy that your friend won, even if you didn't win."

"A spoiled sport?"

"Yeah, that's what I said," Philip said, shaking his head emphatically. "A spoys-spore! Anyway," he continued with a dramatic eye roll he clearly learned from Natasha. "I didn't get in trouble because I told Allie good job when she won and I didn't cry because I didn't win. I got a gold star on my chart cause I told Murphy that he was supposed to be happy for Allie and not be sad."

"Wow," Natasha mused. "I'm very proud of you. What's that? Six gold stars this week?" He grinned and nodded his head. "If you need ten gold stars to get a special toy, how many more stars do you need?"

"Hmm," he paused. He spread his fingers wide in front of him. "I have ten fingers and I need ten stars. I got six stars." He counted to six with his fingers, tucking each finger into his palm as he went. "That means," he paused. "I need four more gold stickers until I get my toy," he asked as he counted his remaining fingers.

"Yeah, that's right! You're getting really good at that," Clint cheered. "High five!"

"I did it, Mommy!"

"I know; I saw. I'm very proud of you," Natasha replied, giving him a comforting squeeze.

"I bet you're the only kid in your class who can add like that," Pepper considered.

"Noah can add too. Ms. McKinney let us play with a math puzzle during free time cause we both can add and stuff. Everyone else was working on reading and numbers and stuff, but we can do that too. She gave us big boy stuff to work on," he stated proudly.

"Oh, I think it's starting," Pepper whispered.

The two-year-olds were the first to go onstage, as they didn't sit quietly backstage very well. The song _Who Let the Dogs Out_ kicked to life through the speakers, and Tony resisted the urge to sigh at the absurdity of it all; his eye roll, though, didn't escape Pepper's notice.

"Get used to this, Tony. With two daughters, you're going to be going to a lot more of these," she whispered into his ear.

Amelia was standing in the front row, her red curls shining brightly under the stage lights. She looked down and saw the row filled with her family members. She waved happily. The teacher counted them down from the side curtain. Each girl began to twirl and shuffle from side-to-side. In actuality, the dance itself was a train wreck, but Amelia was clearly having fun. She strutted around the stage in a circle, following the girl in front of her. She tapped her feet off beat and spun in circles when she felt like it. The girls around her did the same thing.

When the music ended, the parents in the audience stood to clap. The teacher walked out on to the stage and encouraged the girls to bow, which really turned into the girls fidgeting in a line. The teacher requested one parent come to the side door to retrieve their daughters before sitting down to watch the rest of the dance recital. Clint stood up quickly.

"Daddy," she cried happily as she saw his sandy blonde hair. Amelia rushed out of line and he caught her as she jumped into his arms. "Did you see the dance, Daddy?"

"Yeah, Princess! You were great. Let's go sit down with Mommy and watch the rest of the show." She nodded and tucked her head into his neck as he carried her. He kissed her forehead and told her how much he loved her.

When the recital was over and each class had their chance to perform, Philip squirmed out of Natasha's lap and reached under the seat. He pulled out the floors and handed them to Amelia. "Here ya go, 'Melia. They're for you cause you danced really pretty!"

"What do you say, Miss Amelia," Natasha prompted.

"Thank you, Philip. Hug," she asked. The little boy rolled his eyes but obliged his sister. Pepper cooed at the precious sight. As they stood to leave, Rogers and Banner congratulated her on her dancing, and Tony dramatically kissed her hand. "Ice cream," she announced excitedly. "Can we have ice cream," she amended when she caught a look from both her parents.

Banner grinned. "I could always do for some ice cream. It's so much better than shwarma."

"It wasn't that bad," Tony defended. "And keep in mind, I had just destroyed the space station of alien minions or something, toppled head over heels out of the sky, and got scared to life by the Other Guy roaring angrily in my ear. I'm allowed to pick the food when that happens!"

"It was disgusting food," Rogers added.

"Oh for heaven's sake, let's go get ice cream before we dredge up this entire argument again in a public place surrounded by innocent children and their parents," Pepper encouraged as she ushered the motley crew towards the parking lot. "The children do not need to be scarred by your differing opinions on sustenance."

••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

"Agent Romanov's off the grid," Hill informed Barton. "She missed her check-in."

"What," he stumbled. He risked a glance at his two children playing on the living room floor.

"Her contact waited for her arrival for 15 hours. Romanov's gone dark. She has 48 hours to check in before we send in a team."

"Put me on the team."

"Barton, think very carefully about this," Hill insisted. "You don't take missions together for a reason. If she's in jeopardy and you get compromised, there's a lot at risk."

"I know that, Agent Hill," he growled into the phone. "I lead the team that goes into recover."

"Are you sure, Barton?"

"Damnit, Maria. I need to be on that team." His outburst got Philip's attention. The recently turned six-year-old pushed himself off the ground and shuffled over to his father.

"I'll keep you updated. Hopefully, she'll check in and the team won't be needed," Hill replied before ending the phone call.

"What's wrong, Daddy," Philip asked. He stood between Clint's spread legs and placed his little hands on his father's knees.

"Nothing, buddy. Nothing's wrong. Everything's going to be okay," he promised as he wrapped his arms around his son. "Everything is going to be okay," he reassured.

"When's Mommy coming home," he wondered aloud.

"Soon, I hope. I need to run down to the lab to talk to Uncle Tony. Can you stay here and play with Amelia? If you need anything, ask JARVIS to get me. I'll be back in about ten minutes, okay?"

"Yeah, Daddy."

••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

"Stark," Barton all but screamed as he burst into the lab.

"Jesus freaking Christ," Tony shrieked. He practically jumped out of his skin when the archer stormed into the lab. "Care to knock? Or at least announce your presence in a less heart-stopping manner? Do you even make a sound when you move? Fuck you're like a panther or something."

"Shut up. I need you to hack SHIELD and get information on Natasha's current mission. I need it now."

"What? Why?" He bumbled even as he slid across the floor to another computer to start hacking. He took a long swig of coffee and waited for Barton's answer.

"She went dark. Hill just called. I demanded to be the lead on the recovery team if she doesn't report in the next 48 hours."

The genius for once was silent. His fingers flew over the keys as he bypassed firewalls and security validations. He paused as his software ran through a sequence of loops. "Count me in."

"It won't be an Avengers recovery. It will be SHIELD agents."

"No. If she's gone dark, I'm on the recovery team too." The archer looked like he was about to protest. "Barton, whether you admit it or not, you're human. The suit has a camera on you at all times. When you run off and do something stupid to save your girl, I'll at least be there to catch you, literally because you really love to jump off buildings without even bothering to look. If she needs a recovery team, count me in."

"Fine by me," Clint agreed. "Talk to Fury."

"Fury will do as I say," Tony insisted. Clint sent him a disbelieving look. "Fury will do as Pepper says."

"That sounds more like it."

"Okay, JARVIS, set a 48 hour timer. Alerts at four-hour intervals. Print the file retrieved from the SHIELD system concerning Romanov's mission."

••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

Clint paced. Ten strides. Turn. Ten strides. Turn. Again and again until there seemed to be a well defined lightening in the carpet.

"Stop," Pepper shouted. "You're going to make me sick."

"Sorry," he murmured. He ran a hand through his hair before rubbing it roughly over his face.

"She'll be okay."

"You don't know that."

"You know her, Clint. She can get out of any situation. She'll be okay. She has to be. She still has seven hours left to check in."

"398 minutes," he corrected. "398 minutes until I'm leading a recovery team to find my partner."

"If there's anyone who can find her and bring her back, it's you," Pepper tried to reassure him.

"God, Pepper," he groaned. "If I can't get her back, fuck, I don't know. Philip and Amelia, Jesus, Pepper. I've got to," he paused when the phone rang. He practically flew across the room, fumbling the phone once he got it in his hands.

"Barton." His voice was gruff. He knew the timeline; either it was good news and she was alive, or bad news and she wasn't. Their lives had always been in black-and-white: live or die, hit or miss, success or failure. Whenever the outcome of the coin flip was unknown and Natasha was involved, it made his stomach flip uncomfortably. Now that they had a family, two beautiful children waiting for their mommy to return, that churning in his gut became a painful stab at the thought of all that could be lost.

"You need to get on base now," Hill demanded.

"What happened? Is she okay?"

"She's alive." The tone in which Hill revealed Natasha's status did little to relieve the encompassing feeling of worry.

"What happened?"

"Barton, get to base."

"What am I walking into?"

"Does it matter? You need to get here as soon as possible. We think she was made by the mark." He hung up before continuing to fumble with the phone.

"I've got to get on base. They found Natasha. She's alive," he mumbled as he grabbed his keys off the ring. "Can you… The kids…"

"Of course, Clint. Go. I'll stay here in case they wake up."

••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

"Where is Agent Romanov," Barton demanded as he ran into the medical bay of SHIELD headquarters.

"She hasn't been cleared for visitors yet," a nurse informed him timidly.

"Like hell she hasn't. Where is my partner?"

"Agent Barton," Hill called from down the hall. "Calm down."

"Calm down," he asked. He inhaled deeply, clenching his fists by his side. "Fine, I'm calm. Where's my wife?"

"Follow me. I need to brief you before you go in the room."

"Fantastic," he grumbled sarcastically. They stopped in front of a bright room with neon lights, a jumble of medical equipment, and a drawn curtain. He caught a glimpse of her red hair just beyond the curtain. His hand itched to pull the doorknob.

"She called in an extraction from a payphone in an abandoned warehouse district. When we got to her, she was barely conscious."

"What are her injuries?"

"Broken ankle, fractured ribs, concussion, a few burns and electrical burns, deep bruising, and lacerations. She passed out from blood loss from a deep gash in her thigh. Medic casted her ankle, wrapped her ribs, treated her burns and cuts, and stitched the ones that needed it. She can't leave until she's been debriefed, but when she called for an extraction, she seemed to be hallucinating. There were drugs in her system. I called you in because, let's face it, anyone else is too afraid to talk to her in her drugged state. I like to keep my blood inside my body and my bones unbroken. I trust her not to maim me on a good day, but drugged and extracted from a made mission, no, I think not."

"Glad to hear you're using me for your own personal safety," Clint quipped. "Can you get your white coat minions out of my wife's room?"

It wasn't until he was sitting at her bedside with her small hand tight between his did that churning feeling of despair begin to ebb. He knew it wouldn't entirely go away until Natasha was back at home seamlessly juggling motherhood and agency work. He hoped they would be home before Amelia and Philip woke up for the traditional Sunday morning cartoons.


	12. Chapter 12

Author's Note: Sorry for the delay. I got a little sidetracked with work. I hope I managed to find a good balance between continued angst from the previous chapter and humor. I wanted to thank Addicted-To-Sugar-Quills, CrazyDC, and ConnorVolturi. Inu-rulz, I hope I answered your question. As always, please leave reviews and let me know what you think and/or what you would like to see in upcoming chapters. I could definitely use some new ideas!

Disclaimer: I don't own the Avengers or any such Marvel characters; it makes me sad on a daily basis.

Clint dragged a ragged hand over his eyes. He finally convinced the nurses to take Natasha off the sedatives. He knew how much she hated the overwhelming groggy feeling that accompanied such drugs. Hill slipped in through the door quietly and handed him a large folder.

"There's information in there that Stark couldn't have hacked in a hundred years."

Clint had the decency to grimace a bit, but he wasn't ashamed or guilty. His wife went dark, and he found the information he needed. He was an agent after all; collecting intelligence was par for the course. _As are injuries_, he reminded himself with a frown.

"It does look a bit thicker than the file he retrieved for me," the archer commented absentmindedly as he dropped the manila file onto the side of Natasha's bed. Looking up, he noticed how much smaller it made her seem since the file took up more of the bed than she did. He immediately moved it to his lap. "Can I get a list of her tox screen?"

"You're not going to like what you see."

"I rarely ever do."

"Her doctor said everything should heal within 6 weeks, especially since the ankle was a clean break. He didn't take into account her enhanced physiology though. I bet a month," Hill joked. She tried desperately to bring some comedy to the tense situation.

"If it takes her a month to heal, she's going to go on a massacring rampage," he snorted. He pinched the bridge of his nose in an attempt to fend off the headache that was already pulsing behind his eyes. "She'll probably make a game out of it too."

"We'll have to put some tape lines on the floor, so innocent bystanders don't accidentally cross into her range of fire."

"She's the Black Widow, Hill. Given her range of fire, you're going to have clear out the whole medical bay." The woman laughed, knowing the statement was truer than she would like to admit. "If she's here for a month, Fury is going to have a great time corralling our children."

"He's an old softie at heart. He just pretends he has a stick up his ass."

"He should look into acting if that's how he pretends. The man seems to play the part well," Clint scoffed. Hill laughed with a knowing nod before excusing herself to give the archer time to sift through all the information in the file in front of him.

He steeled himself and opened the file. Natasha's cover had been as a dance instructor working in the studio beneath the mark's suspected headquarters. _Of course_, he thought to himself, _of course, the douche bag would choose a location surrounded by children for his nefarious plans. Who would think twice about an ignorant old lady who owns a dance studio in the middle of Kiev sharing the upstairs apartment with her gunrunning son and his organization of thugs? It sounds like the perfect place for children._ His brain ranted as he continued to filter through the information.

Natasha was tasked with befriending the old woman and collecting intel on her son and his extracurricular activities. He grimaced, noting the mark, one Victor Shevchenko, was a well-known politician. There was a lot left out of the file Stark hacked and a lot left out about how the operation went south. For instance, how Natasha started in Kiev yet was picked up in Bratislava. Ukraine to Slovakia, he calculated the time in his head- 16 hours by car or 3 hours by plane give-or-take. He didn't know if he had a preference. All Clint knew was that nothing good happened during the 2 days she was gone. Nothing good ever happened when the mark's goal was to get you into an abandoned warehouse in a completely different country. He paused a second to thank his lucky stars that the mark was ultimately unsuccessful.

Clint sensed her shift more than he saw or felt it. He paused in his reading to glance up from the file and saw her green eyes locked on him. He let out a breath he didn't realize he had been holding. She didn't blink; she just stared straight at her partner. Standing slowly as not to spook her, he murmured her name and told her she was safe. Her shoulders relaxed just slightly. Her eyes eventually shifted around the room, taking in her surroundings.

"I hate hospitals," she growled. Clint laughed out of pure relief; whatever happened didn't break her. Sure, he figured, there would be both physical and emotional healing, but she was still there with her snarky personality shining through. "Who the fuck decided people heal best under fluorescent bulbs drowning in the overwhelming smell of bleach?" _Yep_, he thought to himself, _she's going to be just fine_.

"Well, doctor says you'll be healed in 6 weeks."

"Barton, you had better be fucking kidding me." She snarled, the threat evident in her tone.

"I told him he was an idiot," Clint defended with his hands raised comically in the universal sign for surrender. "I told him it's never taken you longer than three weeks to heal, but no one listens to me."

"Usually for good reason," Natasha muttered with a smirk. "Damage," she asked.

"Broken ankle, fractured ribs, concussion, assortment of burns, deep bruising, a few lacerations and a couple gashes that needed some serious stitch work," he recited. He ticked off a finger each time he listed another injury.

"It looks like you're trying to recall our grocery list," she teased.

"How do you feel?"

"Swell," she responded with a snarky tone. He didn't resist the urge to roll his eyes. He fixed her with a look, and she groaned noiselessly. She closed her eyes and took a detailed assessment of her own body, paying particular attention to the muscles around her torso that throbbed with each breath. "Feels like I was an ugly Ukrainian's punching bag," she decided. She saw the worry and fear flicker through his stormy eyes and regretted her jab. "I have felt worse," she amended.

"What happened, Tasha?" She shrugged, which caused an immediate wince as her fractured ribs shifted painfully.

"How are Philip and Amelia?"

"Tasha."

"Clint."

"You fell off the grid for 2 days. Once you're debriefed and they clear you, we'll go home, and you can see them."

"Okay. Get Hill in here and I'll debrief while you go harass a doctor to discharge me."

"I'm debriefing you," he informed her. He watched her face carefully.

"That's not protocol."

"Hill called me in to debrief you. What can I say? You intimidate people." There was a humorous edge to his voice that accompanied his smile as he tried to ease the tension that built in the room.

"We're supposed to follow protocol," she stated plainly, already slipping into her utterly professional character that she adopted during difficult debriefings.

"Tasha, you and I have adverse reactions to protocol. It's like oil and water or polar opposites on two magnets or Stark and Fury. We rarely follow protocol unless it's life-or-death, and even then, we tend to make up our own rules and roll with the punches, literally. So," he prompted.

She sighed and reluctantly nodded.

"Are you hallucinating or feeling any effects of drugs in your system beyond those of the sedative and pain killers distributed upon extraction from Bratislava?"

"I was in Kiev."

"You were picked up from a payphone outside an abandoned warehouse in Bratislava, Slovakia."

"Oh."

"Are you hallucinating? Do you feel any trailing effects of other drugs in your system?"

"No."

"Can you tell me what you remember?"

"I was teaching the last class of the day. It was an intermediate ballet class for 8 to 10 year olds. A man came in through the dance studio door, and he walked up the backstairs to get to the apartment above where Shevchenko ran his operation. The old lady was gone for the afternoon, and I was getting ready to go back to the apartment.

A little girl from the class came up to me outside to ask me a question. She was 10 and wanted to trade extra lessons for cleaning duties. I got hit with a decent voltage of electricity numerous times. A handful of syringes, including one with a paralyzing agent, were injected and I woke up in a warehouse hanging from rope bindings off a hook. They kept giving me the paralyzing agent, and my body wouldn't move though my mind was fully functional.

I had been made. The man was a client of Shevchenko and recognized me from the program. He was a soldier training near the Red Room facilities. He remembered my hair. He didn't know if it was me for sure or just an unlucky look-alike, but Shevchenko didn't want to take a chance. I sustained a majority of my injuries while the paralyzing agent was in effect. Shevchenko missed a dose, and it started to wear off, enough for me to take them both down and evacuate the warehouse before lighting it up."

There was little to no emotion in her retelling. Natasha walked him through the events in a detached and clinical manner. This was work, and he knew better than anyone just how quickly she could fall into that professional mindset.

"And the girl?"

"I don't know. Any other questions?"

"We'll have the nurse do a secondary tox screen to include in the report, and I'll get a doctor to issue the discharge papers." He stood and left the room. Just outside, away from her line of vision, Clint leaned heavily against the wall of the corridor. He closed his eyes and dropped his head back. She was leaving something out. He had been her partner for so long and sat through countless debriefings with her; he knew when she was omitting something from her report.

"Barton," Hill asked softly. He jerked his eyes open and refocused on his handler. "Sorry, I didn't mean to startle you. I just sent a nurse in for the second tox screen. Everything okay?"

He cleared his throat before offering a curt nod. "Yeah, it's good. She's been debriefed."

"Figured you would be looking for this," she said. Hill handed him the discharge form, and he smiled gratefully. "No training until the cast on her ankle is off. I don't have to tell you about first aid. You two should have your own medical bay at this rate. Anyway, go home. Reports due Wednesday morning by 0900," she informed him.

"Thanks," he mumbled.

Taking a deep breath, Clint walked back into Natasha's room to help her get home.

••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

Philip practically bowled her down when she hobbled through the door. Amelia struggled desperately to get out of her seat where she was eating pancakes. Natasha bent at the waist as best as she could and kissed her son's sandy blonde hair as he wrapped his arms around her. Amelia wasn't far behind, and the three year old nearly tackled Philip in her haste to see her mom.

"You got boo boos." Philip noticed when he pulled back to look at her.

"Yeah, but I'm okay," she promised. "Actually," she whispered, "I'm much better now that you've both given me a hug. It looks like I missed Sunday cartoons though."

"It's okay! JARVIS can play them again!" Philip led Natasha to the couch and clamored up next to her, tucked happily into one side, with Amelia on the other.

"Be careful of Mommy's boo boos," Clint reminded as he walked into the kitchen. "Thanks, Pepper."

"How is she?"

"She's Natasha."

"Ah," the strawberry blonde nodded knowingly. "Well, if you need anything, you know where to find me. Welcome home, Natasha," she called as she walked towards the door.

"Mommy, where are Auntie Pepper's babies going to come from," Philip asked. In the kitchen, Clint choked on his water.

"They're in her tummy. That's why she has a bump," Natasha explained as Clint pounded his chest in an effort to breathe.

"But how do they get in her tummy?"

"How do you think they get in there," she asked. Her gaze locked on Clint's and she looked a little bewildered. He shot back a similarly shocked look. At least they were on the same page, and neither of them had a single idea of what to say.

"Murphy says you get a baby with a bee and a bird. Annie said you get a baby when you dance in bed. Murphy's mommy is going to have a baby too, and he was talking about how big she got when we were at recess. I told him he was stupid. I asked Uncle Steve about it, but he turned red like a tomato and didn't tell me. Oh, and Eric said that his mommy said that a stork drops the baby off. Then he said a stork was a bird, and I told him my daddy was a bird. He thinks daddy delivers babies."

"I'm a hawk," Clint groaned from behind the couch. "Did you tell him I don't deliver babies?"

"I tried, but I couldn't member the name of the bird you are, so he kept saying you were a stork. Annie told him a stork was like a dragon, and they're make-believe."

"Hawk," Clint repeated under his breath. "Not stork. Hawk."

"Murphy can't be right. He does a dance when he's right. He looks stupid."

"Stupid isn't a nice word," Natasha reminded him.

"What's a nice word for stupid," Philip countered. When she glared at him, he rolled his eyes dramatically. "Well who's right? Where did Auntie Pepper's babies come from?"

"When two people love each other very much," Clint started.

"Please sound like more of a cliché," she grumbled in Arabic, knowing neither child understood that particular language.

He fixed her with a glare before continuing. "They have a baby."

"I know that," Philip drawled slowly. "But how does the baby get here?"

"It appears magically into the mommy's tummy where it hangs out for a little while before being born." Clint bullshitted his way through the explanation while actively avoiding looking at Natasha for fear he would burst out laughing. He could hear the change in her breathing as she tried to prevent smirking at his response.

"Oh, okay," Philip nodded.

"I want a baby," Amelia announced.

"No, no you don't. You don't want a baby. You don't want to have…" Clint halted abruptly trying to find a different word for sex. "You don't want to fondue. You don't want babies. You don't want to date. In fact, you can't date until after you're married. It's a rule now," he decided. "Set in stone, Daddy wins." Natasha merely rolled her eyes.

••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

"Fury, I have a question," Stark declared.

"Why are you on my base?"

"I can't stop by to 'say hello to my little friend'," he asked, feigning emotional pain as he referenced a classic film.

"What are you doing on my base," Fury repeated.

"Is that any way to greet an old friend?"

"Stark," the director growled.

"Right, so I've got a question."

"So you said."

"It's kind of important. Could you swivel so that you're non-pirate eye can see me?"

"Stark," Fury snarled again. "I am busy running an international intelligence organization. What do you want?"

"I'm having twins."

"Great. Just what the world needs… a double dose of Stark in infant form. Do I need to prepare a Doomsday plan or something for when your twins wreck havoc on the world as we know it?"

"That wasn't the question. In fact," Stark pointed out, "I said a statement. I explicitly said I had a question."

Fury dropped the file in his hands and turned to face Stark. "What," he hissed.

"Pepper seems to like you."

"Again, not a question."

"She wants you to be the godfather."

"For the love of God, Stark, stop making movie references and get on with the damn question."

"That was the question," Tony drawled.

"What was the question?"

"I'm supposed to ask you if you will be the godfather to one of our twins when they're born." The silence spread between them. Fury blinked once or twice, and Stark shifted nervously. "Pepper seems to think it's a good idea," he mumbled.

"Why?"

"Hell if I know," Stark grumbled. "Your guess is as good as mine."

"Can't you just list me as an emergency contact or something and call it a day?"

"You're welcome to tell Pepper that. I did my job. I asked. I'm done. I want an éclair from Paris."

"I mean, as Director, my life isn't exactly suited for children in any scenario, especially not your children. Mellow, quiet children could be a possibility, but your children will be neither mellow nor quiet."

"Trust me. I'm not planning to run off and die and leave my children with a balding Cyclops."

"Says the narcissistic billionaire whose pastimes include excessive drinking, frequent, unmonitored explosions, and flying around the world in a tin can suit at speeds that rival our fastest jets," Fury retorted.

"You're just jealous that the Iron Man suit is faster than your QuinJet."

"Don't you have a Parisian woman to be harassing about the fluffiness of your éclair," the taller man mocked. Stark took that as his cue and turned to leave. When he reached the door, he heard Fury say, "Tell Pepper I'll think about it and I appreciate the request."

••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

"Daddy, sit!" Amelia cried as he walked through the door. Natasha, Amelia, and Philip sat around a small table in the living room, each holding a tiny plastic cup.

"What's this," he asked cautiously. He placed the well-worn bow case on the kitchen counter on his left.

"It's a tea party! We're princesses," Amelia announced. Indeed, the little girl was adorned in a princess costume she got from Banner on her third birthday.

"I'm not a princess," Philip grumbled as he drank his imaginary tea.

"It's a tea party, and you're a princess. It's pretend," she glared at her brother.

"Can I go play Mario now," he whined.

Natasha shook her head. "You actually enjoy time out, so this is your punishment. You get to be a princess and have a nice tea party with Amelia and me." Philip huffed and crossed his arms over his chest as he pouted. "Tell Daddy what you did."

"Hmm," he pondered. "I think I'm good. I learned my lesson."

"Philip."

"I'm okay," he insisted. "I'm a princess."

"Philip Aiden Barton."

"I shot Amelia with a bunch of arrows," he grumbled. Clint lifted an eyebrow, silently telling him to continue.

"Why?"

"She was playing with my Legos."

"And if you can't share and play nicely with your toys, you're going to sit here and play nicely with her toys," Natasha told him.

"Yeah, yeah. I know." She fixed him with a quick glare at the disrespect laced in his tone. "I mean, yes ma'am."

"Daddy, play princesses with us! Сидите пожалуйста." The young girl smiled up at him as she requested he sit in Russian. "Mommy's a fairy princess ballerina. I'm the queen." She looked over at Philip. "Philip is the prince who's supposed to rescue the other princess, but he got thirsty. He wanted tea. You can be… You can be the princess' fairy godmother! You can have a wand and a crown," she exclaimed excitedly as leapt from the table and ran to the dress-up chest in the far corner. Digging through it, she found just what she was looking for. Standing on her tippy toes, she put the crown on her father's head and handed him the pink, shimmery wand.

Amelia ran back to the box to find a shield and sword for Philip.

"Not a word," Clint breathed heavily as Natasha bit her lip, threatening to tease him and laugh. "Don't even, Tasha."

She couldn't help it. A throaty laughed bubbled out of her, even as she covered her mouth with her hand to try and stifle the noise.

"Tasha," he warned.

"Hawkeye, the fairy godmother," Natasha teased mercilessly. "Oh god, it's too good. I want nothing more than to put this in your jacket. Occupation," she pretended to read, "world's best marksman, unparalleled with bow and arrow, SHIELD agent, and part-time fairy godmother."

"It's tea time," Amelia declared as she sat back in her spot. "We need cookies to have with tea!" Her little feet hit the wood floors as she rushed into the kitchen to find snacks to have with tea. Philip just looked utterly bored. Natasha couldn't stop laughing, and Clint actually seemed to pout.

The front door opened to reveal Tony and Banner. Clint audibly groaned as he dropped his head, nearly causing his crown to fall off.

"Oh my god," Banner grinned.

"Aren't you a pretty little princess," Tony mercilessly mocked. "Did you decide to swap your bow out for a pink wand? It's okay. SHIELD will understand that you've decided to alter your weapon of choice."

"Shut up," Clint grumbled.

"We're having tea," Amelia repeated for the umpteenth time.

"We just stopped by to talk about some of the new dynamics for those arrow heads we've been working on," Banner explained with a shit-eating smirk as he took his phone out to snap a picture of the two assassins dressed up at a tea party.

"No, we're having tea," the girl replied.

"We're having tea," Tony asked cautiously.

"Yes. It's teatime. Uncle Tony, you can be Rapunzel, but you're not stuck in the tower anymore cause your fairy godmother gave you wings!"

"Rapunzel? Fairy godmother," he stuttered. "What?"

"Daddy is the fairy godmother. See, he has a crown," Amelia explained as if it made the most sense in the world. The presence of the crown clearly transformed the bow-and-arrow-wielding assassin into a fairy godmother. "And Uncle Bruce, you can be Sleeping Beauty, 'cept you're not sleeping cause you like tea."

Amelia hustled around, her red curls bouncing as she skipped around the living room. Each of her uncles received a costume before being ushered to the table to grab a small cup and drink imaginary tea.

Tony looked between Banner and Barton and whispered, "No one speaks of this day ever." The two other men couldn't help but agree.


	13. Chapter 13

Author's Note: Sorry for the delay. I got swamped. Let me know what you think!

Disclaimer: I don't own the Avengers or any such Marvel characters; it makes me sad on a daily basis.

"Barton," Stark wailed. "Did you even look? Or did you just belly flop off the side of a goddamn building in the middle of a warzone? What the fuck is wrong with you?"

"Your suit has a camera on me for a reason," the archer bantered. "Just wanted to meet expectations."

"You jumped off a 30-story building! Where's your damn grappling hook, Katniss? You're damn lucky I saw you. I don't want to hear you whimpering about whiplash."

"Can you save your banter for a team when we aren't being ripped apart by Doom-bots," Rogers requested, slightly out-of-breath. "Civilians trapped in a bank in the left quadrant," he added.

"We got it," Barton declared. "Mush! Mush!"

"I will drop your ass. I am not a fucking Eskimo dog," Stark threatened, his tone on edge. Barton smirked up at him.

"Tasha, six on your six," Barton called. "Five on your six," he amended as one of his precisely fired arrows pierced the armored shell of a Doom-bot.

"Romanov, how close are you to their tank?"

"Are there any villains left in the world that fight their own damn battles," Stark wondered. "I mean why on Earth do we keep having to battle these armies of robots or aliens or mutant minions?"

"Barton, can you blow the tank with one of your exploding arrows? With the way they're guarding it, it seems to be their command center. If it explodes it will take out a good number of them." Captain analyzed the battlefield as he threw his shield in a perfect arc, taking out four Doom-bots in one fowl swoop.

"Its shield is impenetrable from the outside." Natasha negated Captain's plan.

"So its weak spot is either the underbelly or inside," Rogers reasoned, given the new information.

Natasha performed a thigh choke on one Doom-bot and fired eight perfect shots off as she landed in a gymnast's plant, looking around to assess the next threat. She saw a break in the waves of the Doom-bot attacks. She eyed a skateboard abandoned before the firefight in a pile of rubble in front of a partially destroyed sports store. Quickly checking all four wheels, she silently chuckled to herself at the absurdity of her plan, not that it was extravagantly crazy but that it involved a skateboard to begin with. _Oh well_, she thought to herself; the assassin was proud of her ability to adapt to whatever situation.

"Let's hope it's the underbelly," she stated as she laid flat on her back on the skateboard and pushed off a particularly large pile of rubble towards the tank.

"Barton, cover the west. I've got the east. Stark, south. Romanov, roll out shooting to cover your north. Get a safe distance away and then light it up," Captain dictated as he shifted his fighting to his determined quadrant.

"The fuck, Widow," Stark laughed. "Where the hell did you find a skateboard? Oh," he exclaimed. "Maybe that would be a good gift for your little hawkling."

"Give my son a skateboard, and I will personally make sure your twins are the last children you're capable of conceiving. C4 attached," she confirmed.

"Tasha, you're riding into a whole clump of them. Change your angle. You can't take out that many lying down," Barton declared.

"I'm low on ammo," Natasha announced.

"Perfect time to tell us that, Spidey," Stark grumbled. "And who said I was talking about giving Philip a skateboard? Maybe I meant Amelia. That girl's got some good balance and a decent need for speed."

"Are you clear," Captain asked. "Blow it, Widow."

"That's what he said," Stark interjected.

"The last he that said that to her was hacked into bits and pieces and distributed all over Mexico City," Barton warned.

"I'm being pushed back towards the tank. I'm not in a safe distance," she relayed. Natasha, still on the skateboard, shot two Doom-bots before turning and pushing off the tank. She sailed between the open legs of the Hulk, who roared angrily and immediately started throwing Doom-bots left and right.

"Count it down, and light it up," Rogers commanded. Natasha did as he requested. On one, Barton ducked behind the safety ledge of the roof from which he was shooting. Captain used his shield to protect himself from the explosion or the debris. Stark, thrusters blazing, shot off to the side, as Natasha jumped behind a car. The Hulk didn't seem at all phased.

The city itself seemed to breathe a sigh of relief when the Doom-bots fell. Its crumbled buildings and cluttered streets exhaled dust as the Avengers looked around to assess the damage.

"What city are we in?"

"The corner of middle of fucking nowhere and hot as hell," Barton quipped.

"We're going to have a hell of a time when villains start creating armies without a handing command center to detonate," Rogers pointed out as he surveyed the wreckage of the tank.

"Until then though, let's get Shwarma," Tony declared victoriously.

"No," Natasha rebutted. "No shwarma."

"TCBY," Barton offered.

"Yeah, we just saved the fucking world again. We should treat ourselves to a satisfying meal like yogurt. What is wrong with you," Stark debated. "That's the best you could come up with? Not a giant steak or a burger or even damn chicken nuggets… You want yogurt."

"Debriefing then food," Rogers reminded. "You can argue about what we eat the whole flight back to base. Code alpha six seven," he stated into the comm link.

"Yes Captain Rogers," a voice replied.

"Clean up and extraction requested ASAP."

"Immediately, sir," the voice confirmed.

"What the hell," Barton grumbled. "I call for an extraction, and the not-so-nice voice on the other end tells me to cool my heels for 2 to 14 hours. They're worse than the damn cable guys who give you a projected time of arrival between 8 AM and 5PM. But no," he drawled, elongating the vowel. "No, no. Dear old Captain America calls and gets an immediate evacuation," he mocked.

"When you do time as star spangled Popsicle, apparently you get special treatment," Stark commiserated.

"Or maybe I get treated nicely because I'm not an ass to everyone," Rogers countered. Natasha silently smirked while Barton and Stark continued to balk at the accusation.

Banner, having de-Hulked and borrowed some clothing from a civilian, shuffled over to Natasha and leaned over to talk into her comm link. "No shwarma," he mumbled. "I refuse to eat shwarma, in case that wasn't vetoed by the other sane members of our team."

"I'm insulted that you think they're more sane than I am," Stark huffed through the comm system.

"Whatever you're saying, I don't have an earbud. I can't hear you nor do I particularly care to," Banner teased with a light air.

••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

"So I heard you asked Fury to be a godfather," Barton initiated as the two gentlemen leaned against the well worn bar counter at a local joint. The archer took a long sip of his beer. "How'd that work out for ya?" The more he drank, the more prominent his southern drawl became.

"I thought Pepper was kidding. Apparently, she wasn't as I found out when she threatened to drag me along to the next six press events," Stark grumbled into his scotch.

"What's wrong with him?"

"Besides the general irritating, monotonous, asinine attitude he claims as a personality?"

Barton scoffed and nodded. "Yeah, besides that, what's wrong with him?"

"He hates me," Stark said.

"We all hate you."

"Gee thanks, Robin Hood. Way to make a guy feel swell. But you know what I mean, he sees me as Howard Stark's petulant brat, and that's not exactly the person I want raising my kids God forbid."

He nodded his understanding, but with a shrug of his shoulders, the archer continued with his point of view. "He's stable, Stark. He be slightly cold and unfeeling, but so were Natasha and I. Hell we still are on occasion, but we decided that we didn't want our children to be emotionally stunted. They're going to need enough therapy as it is having the Avengers as direct family members. We figured we didn't need to add to that by teaching them those emotions were infernal and hellish. Fury's responsible, and in any case, you know he would do what was best for your kids because he's terrified of Pepper. He knows she'll haunt the hell out of him if he makes a wrong move."

"The woman is something else," Stark nodded in agreement.

"You found the one woman in the world capable of taming the great Anthony Stark."

"I am not tame," the genius countered, glowering at his friend.

"Mhmm," Barton hummed his dispute. "Whatever you say, you're whipped."

"Shut up," Stark grumbled, refusing to encourage this conversation any further.

That night ended in singing as well before the bar owner cut them off and called them a cab.

Barton flung open the master bedroom door and sauntered inside. Natasha, reclined on the bed, raised a disapproving eyebrow but kept her focus on her book. He collapsed onto the mattress on his stomach next to her with a distinct _oomph_.

"Whatcha doin?" He asked with a leering grin. "Tasha," he sung. He repeated her name in different accents with varying pitches until she closed her book and turned to look at him. "Hi."

"You're worse than Philip," she stated bluntly.

"But you love me," he sung again. Natasha rolled her eyes and let out a deep sigh.

"There are days I wonder why," she countered. He pouted as his brow furrowed. "Did you have fun?" She smirked to herself as she noticed she was talking to her drunken husband in the same tone she typically reserved for her children.

"We drank," he confirmed. Already in her personal space, he threw an arm over her stomach and pillowed his head on her chest. "You're comfy."

"Good to know," she drawled. "Come on, Clint. Let's put you in a shower. You smell like stale beer and peanuts." Natasha made a move to worm out from under him, but he tightened his hold around his stomach and shook his head. She grimaced, but settled back into her pillows. "Can you at least get your ass under the covers?" He opened his eyes, and she could see that he was clearly debating how much effort it would take to move. She tugged at the covers underneath her body, trying to adjust them enough so that she could slip beneath them. "You're making this very complicated," she growled at him.

"I'm so comfy," he groaned as she shoved his chest. He flopped over onto his back. Clint turned his head and simply glared at her.

"Get over it," she teased, a humorous tone to her voice. "No," she chided. "Do not get your disgusting bar clothes in between our sheets." He grumbled unhappily. He started pulling and tugging unsuccessfully at his pants before realizing he still had a belt on. He had similar difficulties with the buttons on his shirt. Natasha just watched him and smirked mockingly.

"You could help," he prompted.

"Where's the fun in that?"

"Asshole," Clint grumbled.

"Jackass," she countered.

"Love you," he whispered as he finally got enough clothes off to slide under the covers and pull her body flush against his.

"Hmm. Love you too."

••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

Clint let out a loud groan as he tried to curl into a ball. "Little knees always find that spot," he moaned. Amelia bounced happily on her father's chest, giggling as he grimaced.

"Morning, Daddy!"

"Hi, kiddo."

"Come on; get up!"

"I'm up. I'm up." He rubbed a heavy hand roughly over his face and dropped his head back into the pillow. "Actually, it's nap time. We're going to take a nap," he announced. He wrapped his arms around the three year old and pulled her down next to him.

She furrowed her brow and glared at him. _God, she's a mini-Natasha_, Clint thought to himself. He had about three seconds of peace before Amelia squirmed out of his grasp. "Daddy, it's not nap time. It's morning. It's cartoon time."

"JARVIS, cartoons please," he grumbled as he rolled over to bury himself under Natasha's abandoned pillow. "Sit," he instructed to his daughter.

"Make a nest," she clapped. He raised his eyebrows. "Please," she added with a wide smile.

"Yeah, yeah. Make a nest," he mumbled to himself. He formed a bunch of pillows in a small circle and threw a blanket over the pile. "In you go." Amelia jumped into the center and shifted around until she rested against one of the pillow walls with her feet propped up against the pillow wall on the opposite side. Clint tucked another blanket over her as he eyed his nest creation. It was the perfect size for the small three-year-old, who looked exceptionally comfy. He leaned against the headboard and closed his eyes, falling asleep to the sounds of the Flintstones.

"Daddy, wake up! You missed the funny part!"

"No, no I didn't. I saw it," he grumbled. "I'm not asleep. I'm just blinking really slowly."

"Daddy," Amelia whined. "You're boring."

"I'm not boring. Where's Mommy?"

"Training."

"Philip?"

"Uncle Steve took him to the fish place."

"The fish place," Clint asked for clarification.

"The place with the fish," Amelia replied easily.

"Where is that?"

"The place with all the pretty fishies in the tanks."

"Oh, the aquarium?"

"That thing, yeah. I'm bored. You're boring. Play with me!"

"JARVIS, who else is here?"

"Doctor Banner is in the lab. Mrs. Barton is in the range on level two," the AI responded helpfully.

"What's the count on Natasha's playlist," the archer requested. He hoped to figure out just how much longer she would be based on where she was in her music list.

"47% complete, sir."

"Okay," he groaned as he pushed himself off the bed. "Let's go to the gym and burn off some of your hyper energy. Let me put on clothes," he told his daughter, who sat in her nest and waited.

"Can I climb?"

"Depends on what you want to climb," he answered from the closet. "The rock wall?" She squealed happily. "Okay, you little spider, go put on shorts and tennis shoes please." The little girl scampered off the bed and rushed to her room to get the appropriate gear.

••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

Natasha leaned against Clint's firm chest from her position between his legs. He kissed the side of her temple, smiling against her skin. His hands rested heavily against her abdomen. She looked out to the horizon, feeling a certain degree of comfort in the New York City skyline on display. The cold air felt good against her skin and filled her lungs soothingly. It reminded her of winters in Russia as a child (not an operative) a lifetime before.

It was a rare moment the two got to spend silently wrapped in each other's embrace. Usually there were children swarming in rapid circles or people that needed saving. For the first time in quite some time, the two were home alone with both their children away at school.

"I almost forgot what peaceful silence sounds like," Clint noted. He gently took one of Natasha's hands in his own and brought the delicate skin of her wrist to his lips.

"I'm not sure I ever learned what it sounds like."

"There was Cairo," he reminded her. He interlaced their fingers before returning their joined hands to rest low on her lap. "Then Paris and Budapest."

"You and I remember Budapest very differently," she smirked tenderly, throwing his frequent saying at him.

"Yeah, we do. What do you remember of Budapest?"

"Which time?"

"In general," he prompted. "You hate Moscow and Kiev for obvious reasons. You actively avoid missions in Prague because you don't like being reminded of the sonic arrow. You love Paris, even though it makes you feel like a tourist. You love North Berwick because something about the Scottish countryside rejuvenates you. What do you feel about Budapest?" She dropped her head to rest against his shoulder, tilting her face towards his neck. He knew her well enough to know that the silence wasn't dodging the question, just giving her time to sift through her thoughts. Neither agent was ever particularly good at voicing feelings and emotions; they were taught instead to bury the emotions, as feeling was a weakness. Determined to teach the merit of emotions to their children, they both tried to verbalize feelings more in the privacy of their home where they knew it wouldn't be detrimental.

"It's," she started. Licking her lips to relieve the dryness caused by the cold air, she paused. "Budapest is a fresh start."

"We should take a trip," he announced.

"To Budapest?"

"Anywhere. Maybe we should take Philip and Amelia to see Stalingrad."

"Are we taking them to see Iowa too?"

"The only thing to see in Iowa is an endless eternity of cornfields. Stalingrad is interesting," he countered. "Plus you were born there." She turned slightly to make eye contact with him. "It's a place of relevance."

"As is the Land of the Corn," she replied.

"Knowing our kids, we would blink and lose them in the mazes of corn."

"Knowing our kids, we would lose them in the snow in Stalingrad this time of year," Natasha pointed out wisely.

"It's easier to track people in the snow than in the corn."

"Anyway," she drawled slowly. "What's with the sudden urge to go on vacations?"

"Mr. and Mrs. Barton, Mrs. Stark requests your presence," JARVIS informed them, effectively bursting their little bubble of serenity and privacy.

"Alright. We'll be there in a second. Is she in the office," Natasha asked the AI.

"Mrs. Stark has gone into labor. She is at Mercy Hospital."

••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

"I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry," Tony chanted.

"I hate you," Pepper moaned. "You did this! You and your stupid swimmers!"

"I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry! I love you!"

"Just get your children out of me now! I want an epidural," she shouted.

"I… the doctor said you're not dilated enough," Tony mumbled. He blanched when she glared dangerously at him. "I mean, I'll go find a doctor who thinks you're dilated enough."

He fled from the room quickly.

"Oh thank god." He breathed a heavy sigh of relief as he skidded around the corner and literally collided with Natasha. Stark quickly gulped as he realized he lying on top of her, his legs scissored with hers and his arms bracing himself on the floor by her head, on the scratched linoleum of the hospital waiting room. "Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit. I'm sorry." He flung himself off of his redheaded teammate. Stark didn't know if he should help her off the floor or protect his balls and throat in case she decided to maim him for tackling her.

"Breathe, Stark," Clint reminded him with a smirk. "Inhale, exhale."

"Shut up," he grumbled.

"Where's Pepper," Natasha asked as she stood and straightened her clothing.

"Room 124," he responded distractedly as he scanned the halls for a doctor.

"Why are you out here," Clint asked, clapping a hand on Stark's shoulder reassuringly.

"Medication," he said as he snapped his fingers. "Right, that's what I was doing."

"Are you drunk?"

"What? No!"

"You seem flustered," Clint pointed out.

"I'm having twins! Oh! Luke and Leia! We should name them Luke and Leia!"

"Stark," Natasha said softly. "You're having two girls." She sent a look towards Clint as she gestured to the rambling mess that was Stark. Clint nodded in response to her unvoiced question hidden in her glance as Natasha turned to find the right room.

••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

Rogers rubbed his face as he hunched forward with his elbows propped on his knees. "Did it take this long when you had Philip," he grumbled softly. Natasha laughed softly and nudged him with her shoulder.

"First-time labor is notoriously long," Banner reminded him. Amelia curled in his lap. Her thumb was tucked in her mouth; her red curly hair curtained her face. Rogers' trademark leather jacket was draped over her like a big blanket. "Notoriously long," he repeated. "How can he sleep like that," he asked as he nodded to Barton. The archer had his legs flipped over the back of a chair as he used Natasha's lap as a pillow with his back acting as a bridge. It looked supremely uncomfortable. To top it off, Philip laid across his father's body, using the archer's chest as a pillow.

"It's an uncanny skill," Natasha informed Banner vaguely.

••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

Nearly everyone was asleep in their chairs when Tony sprinted from the room in a large blue gown.

"We have babies," he exclaimed excitedly. Banner jerked awake and Rogers practically pitched face forward out of the chair. "Babies! We have them! Two of them! Two beautiful girls with twenty fingers and twenty toes!"

"Last time I checked each child was supposed to have ten fingers and ten toes," Rogers said as he stood from the chair and stretched his back.

"Twenty fingers and twenty toes in total, you idiot," Tony returned with a frown. "Come on!" The man grabbed Banner's wrist and tugged him down the hallway. The doctor had the sense of mind to wrap his other arm firmly around Amelia before being dragged away from the waiting room by the new father. Natasha lifted Philip off Clint's chest, so the archer could stand. Though given his chosen sleeping position, standing really meant falling gracelessly to the floor. Philip tucked his head into Natasha's neck and looped his arms around her neck. In that moment, walking through the maternity ward with her first born in her arms, she realized just how big he was getting and just how quickly time was passing. She shook her head gently to clear her head of that train of thought.

Pepper held each girl in an arm. She was a natural; after all, she had been taking care of Tony for decades. Each baby was swaddled in a lavender blanket with her initials monogrammed on the corner. "Hey," she greeted as her friends walked in the room. "Hey little ones, look, your family's here to visit." Tony leaned over and lifted one of the girls from Pepper's hold.

"This is Abigail Marie Stark, and that is Sophie Rosalind Stark."

"You named your children after two female scientists," Banner noted immediately. Rogers looked at him completely dumbfounded. "What," he asked. "Marie Curie and Rosalind Franklin," he filled in as if the surnames would somehow help Rogers place the scientists in their historical place. When Rogers' look didn't change, he gave a short summary. "Marie Curie was a French-Polish physicist and chemist. She is known for her work with radioactivity. She's also the first person to be honored with two Nobel Prizes: one in physics and one in chemistry. And Rosalind Franklin was a British biophysicist and X-ray crystallographer whose work greatly influenced our understanding of DNA and RNA molecular structures." When Rogers still seemed to glare at him with a flummoxed look, Banner sighed. "Great names," he complimented. Pepper smiled fondly at him.

Tony shot Pepper a shit-eating grin. "I told you someone would get it." She nodded her agreement, though she obviously didn't care one way or the other.

"Are they identical," Rogers asked. He tilted his head to look at the baby in Stark's arms.

"Yeah, they are." Pepper confirmed happily, though exhaustion was already coating her voice.

"How do you know which one is which," Rogers continued. Natasha leaned over the bed to smile lovingly at the baby in Pepper's arms.

"A mother knows," Pepper smiled. "Though Tony has already mixed them up twice."

"We may never take these hospital bracelets off of them. I will forever be confusing them," he grimaced.

"Eh," Clint teased. "You'll get used to it eventually. Or your big ass brain will figure out a way to consistently tell them apart. Either way, it's going to be great fun for me to watch."

"Yeah, yeah. Shut up. Want to hold your goddaughter," Stark asked.

"My what," Clint bumbled.

"Goddaughter," Pepper stated softly. "I'll switch you, Natasha. Philip can lay here with me, and you can hold your other goddaughter." Natasha smiled softly. She placed Philip next to his aunt, who he immediately snuggled up next to, before gently lifting the newborn out of Pepper's arms.

"I've always wondered," Tony noted as he watched Philip curl into Pepper's side. "Which parent did he get the cuddling gene from? Is the world's best marksman a secret snuggler?" He mocked relentlessly.

"Tasha, do not answer that question," Barton declared, though his voice was soft as to not scare the baby in his arms. He looked up to see her eyeing him, a clearly mischevious glint in her eyes.

"Oh I don't need an answer," Stark laughed victoriously. "Her smirk was more than enough to confirm it for me. You, Hawk Eye, are a cuddler. You're probably like a big giant teddy bear. Oh my god. No, you're Big Bird. It's perfect. It can be your new codename. It's a perfect nickname! It incorporates the agent side as well as the soft and mushy, cuddling side. It's just great."

"Call me that ever, and I will use you as my target practice. Better yet, I'll break all of your coffee makers. Let's see how you like it when you have no fuel!"

"You wouldn't dare," Tony gasped.

"Good," Pepper groaned. "Now we have eight children to look after." Natasha couldn't but laugh.


	14. Chapter 14

Author's Note: It's a really long chapter. 15 pages to be exact. Please let me know what you think!

Disclaimer: I don't own the Avengers or any such Marvel characters; it makes me sad on a daily basis.

"Mommy," Philip called as he ran into the room. His backpack thumped against the counter, and his uniform looked as if he had been swimming in mud all day. "Mommy!"

"Yes, Philip," Natasha answered as she entered the kitchen. Amelia was on her heels.

"Why can't I teach the babies to dance," the little girl cried. She tugged on Natasha's yoga pants, trying to get her attention.

"Because the babies can't learn to dance if they can't walk yet," she reminded. "How was school?" Her question was directed at Philip as he rifled through his backpack in search of something. "And why are you so dirty?"

"Murphy and I found mud during recess, and we were playing swamp monsters," he replied. "It was fun but our new teacher wasn't too happy."

"What's your new teacher's name?"

Philip paused and furrowed his brow, trying to remember. "My teacher last year was Mrs. McKinney."

"That was your first grade teacher. Who's your second grade teacher?"

"Umm, I don't know, but Murphy called her mom the other day. It was funny."

"You need to know her name, сынок. Is it in your folder somewhere?"

He shuffled through his paper in his take-home folder. "Mrs. Laster," he pronounced at last.

"There you go. What homework do you have tonight?" She placed a small plate of sliced apples and crackers in front of him. Lifting Amelia onto the counter, Natasha passed her daughter another small plate of chopped bananas and nuts.

"I'm supposed to write a book report on a book. Oh," he exclaimed as he handed her a colorful flyer. "Our teacher says next week is bring your mommy to school day or something. You're supposed to come talk about your job."

"Which book?" She took the flyer and scanned it before taping it to the fridge. She couldn't wait to ask Fury what the protocol was for agents attending their child's school. Natasha made a mental note to have a camera at the ready to catch the large vein in his forehead throbbing angrily when she asked.

"One about dinosaurs. I picked it out from the library today. We're supposed to write something and draw something."

"Looks like you also have math homework," Natasha commented as she glanced over his shoulder at his take-home folder. She kissed the top of his head.

"Can I go shoot arrows?"

"When you're done with your homework," she responded easily. It was a discussion they had frequently. "If you need help, come ask." She lifted Amelia off the counter and walked to the little girl's room to read stories.

••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

"Run that by me one more time," Fury grumbled. His fingers deeply massaged his forehead in an attempt to abate his oncoming headache.

"I'm going to my son's school for "Parent Day." What is the protocol for what to say when asked about my occupation?"

"Agent Romanov, that is quite honestly the last phrase in the world I would ever expect you to say." The older man looked completely baffled.

"I figured walking in there and saying 'Oh by the way, I'm an assassin and I kill bad people for a living' doesn't fall within the maintaining a low persona." She couldn't help but notice how much she sounded like Clint at that moment.

"Philip will never get invited on a play date again if you walk in and say that," Fury countered. "I'm not particularly sure how the child has friends to begin with."

"Excuse me, sir." Her gaze adopted an angry glare as she stared down the bald man.

"Oh, don't give me that look. He's the perfect mixture of you and Agent Barton. Neither one of you ranks highly on the overtly friendly scale. You don't build relationships with people unless you need information from them. Then, take into consideration the narcissistic tendencies of the Avengers living in his direct vicinity, and it's an honest-to-God surprise that the boy can make friends without subduing them violently."

"He takes after his namesake then," Natasha bit out as she continued to glare at the director.

"As for your question, make something up. I suggest avoiding words like assassin, kill, maim, violent, agent, weapon, gun, arrow, bow, Avengers, thigh choke, combat, or death."

"That's helpful," she deadpanned. As Natasha left the office, she remembered just how distinctly she didn't like that man.

••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

"Barton! Barton! Barton!" Tony's shrieks were heard before the elevator even reached the appropriate floor. "Damnit, where are you?"

"Uncle Tony," Philip asked as he looked over to the door from his spot on the couch. "Whatcha doin?"

"Looking for your dad. Seen him?"

"The nest," he offered helpfully. Tony turned on his heels and sprinted from the room, still carrying one twin under each arm. The girls squealed as he carted them around.

"Bye-bye, Uncle Tony," Amelia called after him.

"Crazy," Philip laughed as he shook his head. Amelia giggled too and refocused her attention on the animated dancing Macaw on the screen.

••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

"BARTON," Tony shouted into the open gym.

"Jeez, what," he called as he belayed down. "Everything okay?"

"Yes, everything is just peachy. That's why I'm running around in frantic circles trying to find your stupid ass that can't just be sitting in his damn living room like a normal person. No, you asshat, everything is not okay. I mixed them up!"

"Okay," the archer drawled slowly.

"I mixed them, and Pepper is coming home. I can't remember which is which and she gave me one explicit direction, which was to not mix them up!"

"What am I supposed to do?"

"I don't know! You're Hawkeye! Look at them and tell me which is which!"

"Are you fucking kidding me? They're identical."

"Do I look like I'm kidding," Stark frantically wailed.

"First of all, you shouldn't be carrying 8 month old babies like sacks of flour," Barton chided. He carefully lifted one of the girls from Stark's hold and bounced her in front of him. "Hey there, little one," he said, his voice infinitely softer and more tender than it had been prior. "Your dad is batcrap crazy. I'm sorry." Stark didn't resist the urge to stick his tongue out at his friend. "He's also very mature," Barton teased as he talked to the child in his arms. "Got an idea," he mumbled.

He lifted the baby towards the ceiling, pointing her face towards the nearest camera. He smiled to himself as he realized he looked like a scene straight out of Lion King. Rafiki and Simba, his brain informed him, causing him to conclude that his children watched too much Disney. "JARVIS, could you tell me which twin I'm holding please?"

"Of course, sir. One moment," the AI responded. Barton smirked around the baby towards Stark. "Mr. Barton, you are holding Miss Abigail."

"Thank you, JARVIS. Why didn't you ask the AI you built which was which," he asked Tony with a smirk.

"Shut up. Give me my kid," Stark grumbled.

"Nope, come on. Philip and Amelia can entertain them while you breathe and stop flailing around like an idiot."

"I don't remember you bumbling around this much when you had Philip or Amelia."

"I don't flail in the first place. I'm Hawkeye. The point is that I don't flail."

"Bull," Stark called as he walked along the corridor to the elevator.

"I also didn't have two babies simultaneously. And you flailed with Philip more than I did. You lost him in the air vents numerous times."

"No, I'm sure you just didn't let anyone see you fumbling around with your newborn. You must have fumbled a bit; I mean the only thing you were good at was bow and arrows. A newborn is in no way a bow or an arrow."

"I believe you referred to Philip as a Pepper Shield when he was first born. A shield is a form of a weapon. I'm good with weapons. I don't fumble."

"You seriously have the memory of an elephant. What in the hell?" Stark plopped Sophie down on the floor and Clint set Abby next to her. Amelia clapped happily and slipped off the couch to entertain them. Philip looked at his father and sent him a glare that clearly said _you-have-got-to-be-kidding-me_.

"Entertain your cousins," Clint instructed, ruffling Philip's hair fondly.

"Can you please stop bringing babies into my space," he huffed, even as he paused the movie and dropped to the floor. "I mean first it was Amelia and then we never took her back to the hospital and she's been here forever. Now these two. Uncle Tony, you should have had a boy."

"We appreciate your help," Clint told him sincerely before shoving Tony towards the kitchen to pour a healthy amount of scotch into a glass. "Seriously, breathe, Stark. Newborns are designed to withstand new parents. You're not going to break them."

"Do I need to tell you just how much he sounds like Romanov when he says things like that about his space? Anyway, they're so tiny. Thor can juggle them in his palms because they're just so damn small."

"I know," Barton reassured. "Looks just like me, but he's got Natasha's personality, except the humor- that's mine." Stark nodded in silent agreement. "Correction: no, Thor can juggle the twins in his palms because Thor's palms are the size of flatbeds on a tow truck. Why are you letting Thor juggle with your children in the first place?"

"Whatever. You let Rogers and Thor play catch with Philip."

"But really," Barton started. "Breathe. Do the best you can. Those girls love you. You've got nothing to worry about."

"Until they start dating," Stark added.

"Until they start dating," Barton agreed.

"I have nightmares. Last night, I dreamt that Abby started dating a teenage version of me."

"Trust me. I have them too. I dream that Amelia dates a teenage version of you too. It never ends well for the boy."

"I would take offense at that," Stark grumbled. "But if Amelia started dating a boy that reminded me of me in any way, shape, or form, I would kill him off before you got a chance."

"If they have to date," Barton started. "Which apparently is key to falling in love and all of that, we should find them teenage versions of Rogers to date. The man is still a virgin 80 years later. If Amelia HAS to date, I want her to date a guy like him who's too damn petrified to touch her much less ask her out. But as it stands, the rule in this house is no dating until marriage."

"Oh I like that," Tony decided. "I really like that. JARVIS, remind me to get that engraved on the wall or something."

••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

"When did our children have more extensive calendars than we do?" Clint grumbled as he stared down at the ominously color-coordinated Post-It calendar one Sunday night.

"I don't know. I could have sworn they were both in diapers yesterday."

"You blinked," Clint accused humorously.

"I blinked. Okay, we've got to figure this out. Philip has gymnastics and soccer three days a week and piano twice a week. Amelia has dance four days a week, gymnastics three days a week, and piano twice a week."

"In addition to school and play dates," Clint added to the laundry list Natasha described.

"Right. Our work schedule," she groaned dragging an entirely different calendar onto the countertop.

"Looks worst than it did when we were starting out," Clint interrupted, filling in her sentence for her. "There are more and more missions that require the best. I mean this is the first time we've both been in the same room in at least three weeks. It's not working. Something's got to give."

"It can't be their schedule, so it's got to be ours," she pointed out logistically.

"We could hire a nanny."

"No, there's no way to ensure their protection with outside help. It's us or our team."

"Okay, I'll retire," he said it so nonchalantly that she almost didn't catch the full weight of the statement.

"What?"

"I'll retire. I'll be an Avenger when the world needs us. In the off time, Stark Industries can hire me as a security consultant. It can be a new branch. Then their schedules don't have to change, and they'll have a parent at everything. If that doesn't work, I'll train new recruitments and stay grounded in New York."

"Would you be happy?"

"I'm not giving it up completely, Tasha. I mean the team gets called out once or twice a month for international related incidents. That's enough. You're right. What we've got right now isn't working."

"If you retire, SHIELD is going to have me cover the missions they would assign to you. I would barely be here at all," she mused as she thought aloud. "I don't want to miss all of that. If we both retired from SHIELD, this wouldn't be a problem at all." She had to admit now the idea carried some weight. There were definite plusses to that arrangement.

"We could both request inactive duty," Clint offered. "That way, Fury doesn't blow a gasket when he gets wind his best agents are leaving. We can still do missions as favors to him. Whether we like him or not, he's done a lot to keep us alive. We owe him that much. Plus, I think it's going to take awhile for us to live comfortably without the adrenalin rushes we get in the field. We'll do missions as favors to him. We'll still be Avengers; that part doesn't change. We'll talk to Stark about becoming security consultants. We'll be home."

"It's a plan," Natasha pondered quietly.

"It's huge, Tasha. It's such a big part of you. It always has been. Will you be happy not going on so many missions?"

She chewed the question over in her mind, quietly assessing her position and analyzing how she felt. He waited patiently. "Like you said, we wouldn't be giving up missions completely. We would still have the few we accomplish for Fury as a favor, and we would still be in battle with the Avengers. I'd still be using my training for something."

"All true, but would you be happy? If you aren't going to be happy on inactive duty, we will find another way to work the schedules."

Again, Natasha paused. She took tally of her ledger. It was dripping red, yes, but she knew it was pretty even now. For each innocent life she took, she saved another. She never forgot a face or a name; she made sure her ledger was in balance. It wasn't about that anymore. It wasn't about whether or not she deserved to be happy because she knew, without a single doubt, that her children deserved to be happy. After seven years of motherhood, she realized that emotions are contagious. When she's happy, they're happy.

For a moment, she imagined what her life would be like if she didn't fold herself into a cat suit everyday and conduct herself as an agent. She knew she would keep training. It was so ingrained in her character she doubted she could stop even if she wanted to. As she analyzed the different options in her head, she realized that what attracted her to the job after she defected was Clint. He was her partner. He was the reason she stayed, the reason she fought, and the reason she never left. He was her constant, and if he was at SHIELD, if he was loyal to SHIELD, then so was she. After Philip was born, their partnership in the field almost ceased to exist outside of the Avengers team. They refused to increase the chances that taking missions together would orphan their son. The aspect she had always held on to was no longer there.

By retiring, she figured, she would be giving up long, sleepless nights on solo missions. She would leave behind endless stacks of paperwork that demanded her attention and promptness when she was home. She would have her husband, her partner, with her nine times out of ten. They would both be home to read bedtime stories, attend birthday parties and activities, and help with homework. They would still be Avengers. They would still fight, train, and move fluidly in the field as partners and as a team. She would still be fighting for good, but by retiring, she would be home to tuck her children into bed.

"Yes," she whispered. "I could be happy."

••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

Amelia squealed, and Good God Almighty, it was loud. Rogers nearly dropped her. Too busy trying to juggle the freshly minted four-year-old and a few presents he carried down to the party, it took him a second to fully absorb the explosion of the pink princess theme. Tony really outdid himself. Quite impressive actually, Rogers grinned. He put Amelia down and her bare feet hit the floor almost silently as she ran. He shook his head noticing, and not for the first time, how quietly she moved. He decided it must be genetic.

One of the floors of Avengers Tower that never was put to use had been turned inside out and transformed into something straight out of fairy tale. A bounce castle was set up in the far corner. There were a few tables set up for tea parties, complete with miniature cups and plates. Little cakes and sandwiches sat on tea trays by each of the tables for the kids. Another wall was lined with a rack of every possible dress-up costume imaginable that could possibly be included in any sort of fairy tale. Tony made sure there were a few male dress-up costumes off to the side for Philip and his friend. There was a large table for presents. A Tangled-style cake sat proudly on display. In the open kitchen to the right was food and drinks for the adults.

Rogers finally finished taking in all the decorations and all the pink. Amelia was still squealing and running in circles to look everything. When Tony walked in from a bathroom on the floor, the small child took off and practically catapulted into his arms with a leap that did nothing to convince Rogers that the child had not genetically inherited Natasha's athleticism. He was baffled that a child that small could propel herself that fast or high to reach Tony's neck without needing to be lifted.

"So what do you think, Princess," Tony asked happily as he spun her in a circle. He was clearly proud of himself.

"Thank you," she squealed. He winced as the pitch hurt his eardrums. Rogers knew the feeling. "It's awesome!"

"Happy birthday. I bet you could get Captain to jump in the bounce house with you while we get everything else ready." Rogers sputtered as Tony put the little girl down.

"You want me to go in the what?"

"The bounce house," Tony stated.

"The purple castle," Amelia shrieked.

"What is a bounce house," Rogers asked skeptically.

"You get in and bounce," the fiery redhead explained. "It's easy. Like the trampoline at gymnastics only it's more funner."

"Funner isn't a word," Rogers returned. Amelia gave him a playful pout with her arms crossed across her chest. He couldn't help but see a mini-Natasha glaring at him. Except instead of being maimed by her assassin mother, his eardrums would surely implode with the shrillness of her squeals.

"It's my birthday," she decided. "Come on. It's easy. I'll show you."

"Don't worry, Cap. You can't pop it. The material is extra strength, industrial polymer. Hulk could play on it, and it wouldn't explode," Stark assured him as he walked back to the elevator to help bring everything down.

"How am I supposed to get through that little slot," he grumbled. He watched, perplexed, as Amelia easily wiggled her way through without a problem.

"Just like that. Come on! It's fun! Bounce with me, Uncle Steve!"

"Yeah, okay. Give me a moment to figure out how to get in." He angled himself towards the small hole in the flap. He managed to get his left arm and right shoulder in before he was stuck. Amelia giggled as she bounced. "A long time ago, I would have been able to get in here no problem," he explained to her. "I was scrawny." He untangled himself from the net before tilting his head to analyze the situation. Again, Rogers worked into the hole, but his massive shoulders prevented him from entering the bounce house. He tugged once and twice before groaning. "I think I'm stuck." Amelia jumped around his head, unconcerned.

"You know, Cap, there's a Velcro tape. Just pull," Barton mocked. "Though I'm sure the mothers coming with their children would love to see your ass on display. Come here, birthday girl. Want to put on your princess dress?" As soon as Rogers removed himself from the entrance of the bounce house, Amelia darted over to her father. "Arms," he prompted, helping her out of her shirt. She tugged down her shorts before stepping into the dress he held out for her. She balanced herself on his shoulders before turning around and letting him zip up the dress. "There you go. Give me a kiss," Clint requested. Amelia happily obliged. "Swing me, Daddy!"

Clint laughed and walked into the center of the room. He took her small hands in his and turned in a circle, steadily picking up speed until her feet were off the ground and she was spinning. He slowed down carefully, catching her in his arms when her dizziness affected her steps. "That was fun," she panted. "When are my friends coming?"

"They should be here soon. Stay here with Uncle Steve, okay? I'm going to help Mommy corral Philip and Murphy. God only knows where those two boys have gotten off to."

The elevator opened to reveal Pepper and the twins. Each girl wore a different colored tutu. They had Tony's dark hair and Pepper's pale skin. They toddled forward to Amelia, who hugged them, before taking them to the bounce castle. "Be careful," Pepper called after the girls. Amelia helped each of her little cousins into the structure before bouncing gently. She held Abby's hand in her left hand and Sophie's in her right. "JARVIS, child-appropriate playlist please," Pepper asked the omnipresent AI.

"Stark went all out," Rogers commented as he surveyed the area again.

"He's a big old softie at heart," Pepper laughed. "I mean he wanted to rent out Central Park Zoo when the girls turned one. It took me at least two months to convince him against something that extravagant for a birthday they won't even remember. We could have given them two cardboard boxes and cupcakes; they would have been equally as excited."

"Looks like the Tin Man found a heart," Rogers mused. Pepper chuckled at his classic movie reference.

Through the PA system, Natasha's voice rang out. "Philip Aiden Barton, if you do not come down from whatever nest you're in this instant, you will be playing tea party alone with ten princesses all afternoon as I will be sending Murphy home."

Pepper cocked an eyebrow and laughed. "She's got this whole punishment thing down," she noted to Rogers, who simply grinned.

"Having to play princess all afternoon, that would get me running," he agreed. "That and you know the person behind the voice terrifies me enough to get running in the first place."

"Intimidation is definitely one of her top skills."

"I know nothing about science, but it has to be genetic." Rogers voiced his theory.

"That worries me about what qualities Abby and Sophie will absorb from Tony and me." Pepper winked at him before walking over to the bouncy castle to take photos of the three girls playing inside.

Moments later, Philip appeared out of breath, clearly having sprinted from wherever he had been hiding. Murphy tumbled through the door connecting to the stairway. "Dude, your mom is fast." Philip just nodded, doubled over with his hands braced on his knees. "I mean she's crazy fast, and she has eyes like a hawk. I don't know how she saw me!"

"If you think she can find you, you never want to hide from my dad. He can see stuff from miles away. His friends call him Hawk sometimes."

"Nuh uh," Murphy shook his head. "There's no way that's true."

Philip glared at him. "You wanna bet. Winner gets two cupcakes." Murphy nodded and stuck his hand out for a shake. "Uncle Steve," Philip called and rushed over to the man, who was leaning against the counter.

"Yeah, bud?"

"Why do you call Daddy Hawk?"

"Because your dad sees much better from a distance," Steve replied easily.

"Like how far," Murphy asked. "Be honest cause a cupcake's on the line."

"Son, I don't lie. My mother taught me better than that. Let's see. I've seen him spot a target from five or six miles away, maybe more."

"Told you," Philip shouted victoriously. "I get your cupcake. I get your cupcake."

"You get nothing if I go back upstairs and see your Legos thrown all over your room. Didn't I ask you to clean those up before Murphy got here," Natasha asked. Philip jumped at the closeness of her voice. Rogers bit back a grin because he knew from first hand experience just how startling it could be to have the assassin appear behind you. It was like a magic trick, he decided to himself.

"We were going to play with them when he got here, so I didn't put them up because I would just have to get them out all over again," Philip told her.

"Well, you both are going to play down here and celebrate Amelia's birthday, so please go put your Legos away in the bin. Remember if I have to come up there and do it myself, the Legos go into hiding. You don't pick up yourself. I will, and you won't know where I put it."

"Yes ma'am," Philip mumbled as he dragged Murphy back towards the elevator.

"Come right back down," she told the boys. "Hey, Cap. I hear you got stuck in the bounce house."

"Stark didn't tell me there was Velcro," he grumbled. Natasha resisted the urge to grin at his boyish pout. "Can I do anything to help set up for the party? Also, I think Stark everything pink and purple in the state."

"It's a little much," Natasha agreed with a shrug. Having been Avengers for so long, they were used to Stark's antics, and both adults knew it could have been much, much worse. The man could have bought an actual castle.

"She's excited though," Rogers pointed out with a nod to the bounce house. Thor appeared on the balcony just outside and grinned widely at the appearance of the party. When he started clapping happily, his loud thunderous applause made Rogers startle a bit.

"Yo Pikachu, don't clap so dang loudly," Stark hollered as the elevator doors opened simultaneously.

"Pikachu is a pokemon. He's a human," Murphy retorted.

"Snarky kid," Stark mumbled as Barton practically shoved him out of the elevator. "It's a nickname," he called after Philip's friend. "Everyone has a nickname."

"Oh yeah?" Murphy challenged. "What's her nickname?" He asked pointing at Natasha.

"Dude, you're going to lose," Philip grumbled. "Uncle Tony doesn't lose, unless it's to Mommy."

"She has many nicknames. For the G-rated ones, there's Red and Spidey."

Murphy frowned. "What about him," he pointed at Clint.

"That one's easy," Stark laughed. "Barton here is Robin Hood, Legolas, Katniss, Green Arrow, or Merida."

"Seriously, dude. You're going to lose," Philip repeated.

"And him," Murphy pointed at Captain.

"Oh, my favorite. That, you annoying child, is Capsicle, my star-spangled Popsicle. Now do you have any more questions?"

"No," Murphy grumbled.

"Uncle Steve, can I call you Capsicle," Philip asked with a shit-eating grin.

"No. Stark isn't even allowed to call me Capsicle," Rogers replied. He glared at Tony.

"I think he just called you Capsicle," Murphy interjected.

"Seriously," Stark turned to Barton. "Where the fuck did you find this irritating kid," he asked in a hushed tone that only Barton and Natasha could hear. "Remind me to build Abby and Sophie less obnoxious friends."

"You know, Stark, Murphy kind of reminds me of you," Rogers teased when the two boys ran to the other side of the room to look at the different costumes for them. "I mean he's outspoken, disrespectful, and annoying."

"Shut up," Tony grumbled. "Here have a cupcake." The genius picked up one of the pink cupcakes and smashed it into Rogers' face. Natasha laughed wholeheartedly as Rogers tried unsuccessfully to wipe the icing off his face. Barton grabbed his phone and took a picture before Rogers started chasing Tony around the room, narrowly avoiding toppling over the mini tea sets.

"Anthony Stark," Pepper shouted as the billionaire almost plowed into Philip and Murphy.

"A little busy right now, honey," he called as he dodged around a pillar. No matter how fast he ran Rogers was still faster. He was Captain America after all. Rogers took the cupcake he had grabbed before the chase initiated and smashed it onto Stark's head. The genius managed a weak glare at Rogers before laughing, as he tasted the icing. "Damn, this is good stuff." He sauntered over to where Pepper was watching the bounce house. "Did you need something?"

"No, I just wanted to see Steve throw a cupcake in your face," Pepper laughed. Sophie slid out of the bounce house and wobbled over to her father.

"Dadadadada," she chanted. He hoisted his daughter onto his hip. She wrinkled her nose at his icing-covered face. "Icky."

"It's not my fault," he insisted. "Blame Uncle Steve."

"Cap," Sophie giggled happily.

"Ha," Rogers shouted victoriously. "You got icky and I got a giggle. In case you didn't pick up on it, that means I win."

••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

The party went off without a hitch. Banner and Pepper sat at one of the miniature tables and played tea party with Amelia and her friends. Abby perched on Banner's lap as he helped her drink the pretend-tea. Sophie sat in a chair between Amelia and Pepper, reaching over to steal bits of Amelia's cupcake. Clint walked in circles, refilling the mini teacups with juice. He too would occasionally steal bites of Amelia's cupcake until the feisty little red head smacked his head away and glared at him. Pepper chuckled at the sight, and Banner offered a soft laugh.

After explaining the concept of pretend to Thor once again, the demi-god dueled in an imaginative battle with small plastic swords against Philip and Murphy. Both boys were decked out in chest plates, shields, and helmets. Rogers eventually jumped in and grabbed Philip for his team before the fight started anew.

Natasha and Tony chatted with a few of the moms, who decided to stay and help keep an eye on everything. The two would weave in and out of activities as needed. It was all fairly normal.

Until the God of Thunder decided he wanted to jump in the bounce house. Pepper was thankful that all the guests, Murphy included, were gone when the urge to bounce struck. Even with the Velcro strap, Thor had difficulty maneuvering his way inside the bounce house.

"You positive about that extra strength industrial mumbo-jumbo you were talking about earlier?" Rogers asked skeptically as he leaned over the counter. Stark grimaced a bit and lifted Amelia onto his hip to prevent her from going to jump with the demi-god.

"This activity brings me much mirth," Thor boomed. "Am I to jump," he asked as he tried to balance himself.

"Yeah, you bounce." Philip encouraged. Barton kept a protective hand on his son's shoulder, waiting to see if the bouncy castle would implode under Thor's massive weight.

"Oh, this is quite enjoyable," Thor chuckled loudly. "Come and bounce," he requested.

"I think we're good on the floor for now, Pikachu. Just bounce yourself out," Stark instructed. Amelia skipped over to Natasha, who swung her daughter up into an embrace.

"Did you have a good birthday party," Natasha asked sweetly.

"Yeah, it was fun."

"Did you tell Uncle Tony thank you for decorating and everything?" Amelia smiled and nodded. "Good." Natasha kissed her daughter's forehead. "So what's next?"

"I want to jump with you!"

"Okay, we can do that," Natasha agreed. "When Thor is done with his turn."

"Um, Stark, the castle," Rogers pointed out quickly. He sounded a bit panicked.

"Pikachu, out you go. The castle is going to collapse in on itself. You're too big," Stark shouted. "Here, come have a cupcake!" The demi god grinned and wrestled himself out of the plastic and mesh material of the bounce house.

Amelia dragged Natasha towards the bounce house. "Come on, Mommy. Bounce!" The agent appeased her daughter and jumped lightly, landing on the balls of her feet. "Look! I can do a flip. I learned in gymnastics. Ready?" Natasha nodded with a smile. Amelia jumped in the air and landed on her butt, bouncing back up to her feet. "See! Can you do a flip?"

"Can she do a flip," Tony scoffed from right outside the house. Natasha sent him a glare, which quieted him quickly.

"I don't know, love. I can try. It won't be as good as yours though."

"It's okay. Just try," Amelia declared. Of course, Natasha knew how to flip. She landed more gracefully than physics should allow on the lumpy floor of the castle.

"Cool! I want to try," Philip cried as he climbed inside as well. Barton leaned against the counter and enjoyed watching the scene unfold.

"Sir, Director Fury requests an audience," JARVIS announced.

"Tell him we're all dead," Stark countered. "There is no room for Fury in our lives today."

"He says it is an urgent manner."

"Grow a spine, JARVIS," Stark grumbled.

"My protocols are being overwritten, sir."

Stark stalked over to the elevator. The moment it opened, he started bombarding the director. "If you have ever wondered why I cause so much chaos on your helicarrier, it's because you insist on overwriting the security protocols I have set. You, Nick Fury, are not a rock star. You do not get free reign of Avengers Tower just because you have some fancy program that can override my fancy program. Please return to your little minions. No one is available to speak to you at present as we all have more important things to be concerned with. You're welcome to return during normal business hours."

"Tony," Pepper chided. "Director, to what do we owe the pleasure?"

"I need to speak with Agent Romanov and Barton," he announced formally.

"Now," Pepper asked. "It's Amelia's birthday party."

"They're not here," Tony interjected.

"I can see them," Fury countered.

"Holograms," Tony explained. "You see I find the actual people to be quite infuriating. They mock my genius. Agent Romanov throws cutlery at me. Agent Barton makes a mockery of me and encourages me to drink. I find that creating holograms is much less annoying, as the holograms don't talk. I've developed a way to have social contact without having to be annoyed by their actual personalities."

"As entertaining as that was to hear you whip out of your ass, I need to see my agents in the conference room immediately."

Barton pushed himself off the counter and walked towards the elevator. He could see Natasha trying to untangle herself from Philip and Amelia. It wasn't going smoothly. Amelia gripped the agent's leg tightly. "No Mommy. Don't go. The party's not over. We have to read stories. Remember? The princess?"

"I'll be back. I just need to go talk to Fury. Rogers can come in and jump with you. I bet he can do a flip. You wanted Uncle Steve to jump with you before the party, remember?" Natasha tried again to extract herself from the bounce house.

"No, Mommy," Amelia cried.

"You said if I played nicely at 'Melia's party you would play video games with me," Philip pouted. "I was good! And you just got back. Why do you have to go now?"

Clearly neither child wanted to let Natasha leave the bounce house. Barton grimaced, realizing again just how much their careers affected their children.

"Sir, we'll be glad to talk with you first thing on Monday morning about our requests for inactive duty." Barton addressed the director respectfully. "We filed the appropriate paperwork in the proper time to our handler to ensure we had this weekend off. Thus, any matter you're here to discuss can and will wait until Monday." At his words, Natasha relaxed into the mesh-netted wall of the bounce house. Amelia clamored onto her lap quickly, and Philip curled into her side. She kissed their temples and wrapped her arms around them.

She would deal with Monday when it arrived. Until then, she was determined to enjoy quality time with her children and their crazy family.


	15. Chapter 15

Author's Note: I'm sorry this chapter was so delayed! A lot of you asked for Thor and Jane interaction in your reviews. But here's the thing. I am awful, legitimately awful, at writing Thor. His character speaks in such a strange way that I cannot quite wrap my head around it. That being said, I also know little to nothing about Jane's character. Thus, they probably won't be making any major appearances soon. I do apologize; I just don't want to butcher the characters beyond recognition.

Author's Note 2: This is the ending of this particular story. If there's enough want for a sequel of the kids as teenagers, I will definitely write one. I appreciate all of the reviewers and readers who have stuck with me through all 15 chapters of this story. Hopefully, it won't be the end of the saga. As always, I would love to hear what you have to say. Any ideas you want to see in the sequel or another unrelated story are welcome as well!

Disclaimer: I don't own the Avengers or any such Marvel characters; it makes me sad on a daily basis.

"You're retiring," Banner asked, a little flabbergasted.

"Can one simply retire from our team," Thor boomed.

"Not from the Avengers," Clint reassured quickly. "Just as full-time SHIELD agents. We'll still be part of this team in the field."

"That's not going to go over well with the Cyclops," Stark noted.

"Won't they assign other SHIELD agents to the team? Your place was originally to allow SHIELD to maintain some semblance of control over our team, right?" Rogers clarified as he pushed himself off the counter.

Tony scoffed. "Fury just likes to think he has control. I'd like to point out as the monetary backing for the Avengers that I refuse to train and acclimate two new SHIELD agents to the team."

There was a general consensus amongst the superhero members of the team. Clint grinned broadly. He knew their comrades wouldn't allow them to be replaced by new SHIELD agents. The archer looked across the room, locking eyes with his wife, who sported a small smile as well. The redheaded woman cradled the recently turned four-year-old to her chest and kissed Philip's temple.

"Mommy," the little boy asked as he tilted his head up to look at his mother.

"Yes, baby?"

"Can we have a sleepover in the bounce castle?"

"Can we please, Mommy," Amelia squealed happily.

"You want to sleep in this?" Natasha tried to keep the humorous hint out of her voice when she tried to clarify. Both of her children nodded vigorously with wide, excited eyes. "When you have such cozy, warm beds upstairs?" Of course, neither child wanted to sleep in their rooms when a bouncy castle was an option. "Stark, is this contraption you built safe to sleep in?"

"I'm insulted you think I would build something for our gaggle of children that wasn't tested for their safety," he mocked. "I made sure it was Pikachu-proof and everything." When he was met with her questioning gaze, he amended. "Yes, Red, it's perfectly safe for the hawklings to sleep in. I value my package where it is; thank you very much."

"So can we?" Philip asked, jumping up on his knees.

"Why not," Natasha conceded. "But we have to go upstairs to brush teeth and get in pajamas. Then we can come back and have a sleepover."

"You're going to sleep here too? And Daddy?"

"I don't know if you can get Daddy in the bounce house," Natasha teased.

"Amelia, go ask Daddy," Philip declared.

"Why me?"

"Because I said so," Philip countered. He put his hands on his hips as he balanced easily on the bounce floor. Clearly, it was a stance he learned from his mother.

"That's a Daddy reason. You're not Daddy, so that doesn't work," Amelia retorted. She mimicked her brother's stance with her hands balled into fists on her hips. She stuck her tongue out at him.

"Just go ask, 'Melia," Philip sighed.

"No. It's my birthday."

"It's your party, not your birthday. Go ask Daddy."

"Nope," she insisted, popping the p.

"Ugh," he groaned exasperatedly. He threw his hands in the air and dropped to the ground of the bounce castle, clearly giving up on the pointless argument. "Shithead," he grumbled. Natasha's head whipped around and she glared at him.

"What did you just say?"

"Shithead." He shrugged, as the word didn't mean much to him. Behind him, Banner stifled a smirk behind a raised hand. Rogers' eyebrows were arched dramatically in disbelief. Clint walked towards the bounce house.

"Philip," the archer asked. "Who taught you that word?"

"Murphy," the boy responded easily.

"Told you that kid was a piece of work," Tony mumbled. Pepper elbowed him in the stomach.

Natasha and Clint switched into Arabic as they quickly discussed the situation. Banner leaned onto the kitchen counter and watched the scene unfold. "I never, in a million years, thought I would see the world's best assassins talking about their child's cussing in a different language with one of said agents inside of a giant purple bounce castle," he whispered to the adults within earshot.

"You and me both," Rogers agreed with a small smile. "What are they saying?"

"They're trying to call a play," Banner informed him. "If they make a big deal out of it, Natasha is saying Philip will just say it more, knowing that it gets a reaction. Barton wants to make sure he knows he's not supposed to say the word to begin with."

"Parenting an infant is like devising strategies in the field," Thor asked.

"In a way," Pepper nodded. "The parenting strategies have more long term effects than battlefield calls. I'm going to take the girls upstairs and get them ready for bed. They've had a long day." Tony kissed each one of his daughters before smiling softly as his three ladies moved quietly towards the elevator.

"Actually, the last thing in the world I thought I would ever see would be a civilized and tamed Tony Stark." Banner amended his previous statement, throwing a smirk towards his science buddy.

"Oh shut up. You staying for a while, Thor? I bought a closet of PopTarts for your enjoyment, just in case."

"Why thank you! But alas I must depart. There is business on Asgard that requires my steadfast attention. I came only to celebrate young Amelia's birthday."

"Safe travels." Rogers wished, clapping Thor soundly on the back. The demi-god nodded, waved to the Barton family still engrossed in conversation, and departed to the balcony to take flight. "One day, I will get use to that." He promised himself aloud. "I got used to the talking yet nonexistent butler and YouTube and email. I can get use to Thor swinging a hammer like a helicopter and flying into the sky with a cape."

"Not much of a chance, old timer." Stark nudged Rogers with his shoulder. "But hey, for a 70-year-old popsicle, you're doing pretty damn good. Soon, we'll tackle the smart phone."

"I am content with my current phone. It fulfills its purpose," Rogers insisted with a strong shake of his head.

"But Cap, you need a smart phone. The one you've got now, well, it might as well be as old as you are," Stark returned.

"No, we did not have cell phones when I went under. We were lucky to have landlines at all. People still appreciated the value of a handwritten letter." As he reminisced, his shoulders dropped slightly in a homesick way.

"Rogers, your cell phone is a brick. A smart phone could be useful. Just think about it. Stark Industries has a million easy-to-use models we could set you up with," Tony encouraged.

"We'll see. We'll see. Let's just focus on making sure Fury doesn't reassign our team. I can't see the Council letting those two retire and stay on as Avengers. Logistically, it would be a bad move to try and adapt two new agents when this team is already functioning at such a high rate. New agents could be a major detriment in the field." As Rogers spoke, Banner couldn't help but agree. Throughout the years, the general attitude about Nick Fury, the Council, and SHIELD had decreased from tolerated to quiet disdain.

"The thing is, Cap, we're holding all the good cards. The Council wants the Avengers to keep international peace and fight galactic crime, fine. The Avengers, though, includes Romanov and Barton. They want us to fight. If we say we don't fight without our resident assassins, the Council will eventually see reason and allow them the retirement plan they want." Stark shrugged, laying out the facts as he would a winning hand in a poker match.

"You don't think Fury is going to be an issue," Banner asked. He was concerned, though he definitely saw the merit and strength in Stark's logic.

"I think ultimately Fury has a soft spot for those two agents, if only because they were Coulson's favorite duo. Coulson and Fury were, oddly enough, friends. Because Coulson respected and trusted the Black Hawk partnership, Fury respects and trusts it as well. I think Fury adopted them under the guise that they're the agency's best agents, but in reality, he adopted them because they were always Coulson's favorites."

"Stark, I hope you're right," Rogers conceded.

"There's another thing I never thought I would hear in my life," Banner laughed. "Wow, today is a day of surprises, isn't it? Well, I'm off to the lab. I'm working on analyzing that toxin SHIELD sent that appeared as a side effect of one of the new weapons they're designing. Care to help?"

"Do I get to blow stuff up," Stark asked excitedly.

"It's a toxin," Banner countered. "And knowing you, I'm sure you'll find a way to make the substance implode." The doctor shook his head in pretend exasperation, though his eyes sparkled with excitement.

"Have fun," Rogers mock-saluted. "I'm going to call it a night." Barton waved in recognition before turning back to the bounce house.

••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

"You want to retire?"

"Yes sir."

"You want to leave the agency?" Fury tried to clarify. "Both of you? Simultaneously? Not a leave of absence or a sabbatical, but you both want to permanently retire?"

"We were thinking of being labeled as agents on inactive duty, sir." Barton interjected. All in all, he thought the meeting was going much better than expected. Fury's vein hadn't started pulsating nor had the older man started yelling obscenely loudly. It seemed a little odd, but Clint couldn't help but remember the anti-climactic meeting years ago in which the agents had informed the director of the birth of their first child. He hoped this meeting would have equally positive results.

"What are you defining 'inactive duty' as, Agent Barton?"

"We take missions only as a favor to you when there is no other possible way to accomplish them. We both recognize we owe you that much for your professional help and courtesies over the years. Apart from the few missions you call us in for personally, we will not complete regular missions as agents. Our children are at a point where they need our presence. As their happiness and wellbeing are our utmost priorities, we have reached the inactive duty status as a reasonable solution." Barton sat with his shoulders back and his chin up as he professionally and respectfully laid out their case for Fury. "Regardless, we will continue our roles within the Avengers Initiative."

"Inactive duty isn't a problem. I can grant you that. With inactive duty, SHIELD will maintain your benefits and offer payment on a per-case basis. In other words, you will both become consultants to SHIELD. You're still not to take contracting work from other organizations as you both remain on SHIELD's payroll." Fury rubbed the top of his head as he paused to think about the next segment.

"We'll have the flexibility to accept or decline offers to consult," Natasha clarified.

"Of course," Fury nodded. "As inactive agents, you choose whether you wish to accept any request made by myself or the agency. The choice is entirely yours. Remaining as liaisons on the Avengers Initiative may be a more complicated task."

"How so," Barton inquired. "We aren't just liaisons, Director."

"You're still the only two mortals on a team of immortal superheroes. You are the best, yes, but you are replaceable. What I believe isn't the issue; what the Council believes and insists upon is. They're going to demand active SHIELD agents be assigned to your positions on the Avengers Initiative." Barton smirked at Fury's words. "I don't want to know why you're making that mischievous look, do I?"

"Probably not," Barton agreed.

"Stark," Fury asked. Natasha nodded. "Of course, it is always Stark. What's he doing this time?"

"The superhero sector of the Avengers is ready to refuse and ignore any orders if new agents are assigned to the team in the place of Agent Romanov and myself." Barton couldn't wipe the smirk off his face as he informed the Director that the Council didn't have much choice in the matter. "Basically, if the Council wants the Avengers to fight, they fight with us or not at all."

"Well this should go over swimmingly." Fury muttered, though he was already resigned to the fact. He could see what a good team the Avengers made in the field, and he knew it would be a bad call to disband the team. He also knew that the Council would raise hell. He also knew that ultimately Stark would win and the Avengers would remain in tact because Stark doesn't lose.

"So, sir, are we clear?" Barton asked.

"I'll file the paperwork. By the start of business tomorrow, your statuses will change from active field agent to inactive agent/ consultant. Any idea how I'm going to find another equally successful partnership?"

"Find a smartass circus trickster who is obsessively attached to a stupid medieval weapon that can't obey a simple termination mission," Natasha offered with a shrug and a rare smile that barely lifted the corners of her mouth.

"Neither of you can obey simple mission guidelines if I recall, Agent Romanov." Fury replied. "Throughout your partnership, I clearly remember one too many missions when you flailed from a building or Barton blew something up. One of these days, I was hoping the two of you would learn the definition of discreet."

"You should have your hands full trying to replace us," Barton laughed. "And my bow is not a stupid medieval weapon, woman."

"Woman, eh? Well, you and your bow can get nice and cozy on the couch," Natasha teased.

"Sounds like a pleasant evening. My beautiful bow lets me call her sweet pet names."

"Before this turns into something that I really would rather not hear, get out of my office." Fury grumbled, though there was a humorous edge to his tone. As the two agents stood to leave, the director reached out a hand, offering a polite handshake. "Mr. and Mrs. Barton, thank you for your service."

••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

"How does it feel," Clint asked as they drove away from base.

"When it hits me, I'll let you know." Natasha turned and watched the building blur by outside. "What do we do now?" Her question was quiet.

"We live the life neither of us ever dreamed of having."

Natasha nodded, a soft smile playing at the corners of her lips. She twisted her wedding ring around her finger, enjoying the familiar feeling of the jewelry rubbing against her skin. It was, in fact, nothing she had ever dreamed of. She never thought she would be walking away from that life. She never dreamed she would be willingly choosing family and love over training and experience.

"You've got to admit, Tasha," Clint commented softly. "It's got a nice ring to it."

"That it does," she agreed. He smiled, rolled down the windows, and turned up the radio. She laughed freely, smiling wide, as she closed her eyes and let the wind tousle her red curls. "It definitely does."


End file.
